Always in the After
by penandpencil
Summary: Hogwarts was Hermione's safe place; here she could sleep, laugh with her friends, learn new spells, learn to forget. But could she? Warnings: Rape/Abuse and aftermath. Year 6 AU. Cannon up until then. COMPLETE.
1. Loss

Disclaimer: I only own the few meager possessions in my apartment, not any of J.K. Rowling's characters, spells, charms, potions, plants, animals, and so on.

Note: The following story begins in the summer after Year 5 and proceeds through the trio's 6th year at Hogwarts; thus it does not align with any book past Order of the Phoenix. The good news is that those characters lost in the final two years are still among the living. If there's bad news, it's that I couldn't resist adding a little Umbridge. Also, as the warning stated, this story does focus on rape/sexual abuse, and it's aftermath, although it does not condone these acts. Please read safely. Finally, the story is complete, but I am open to suggestions for edits and/or extensions. Feedback of any kind is, as always, appreciated.

* * *

Hermione sat staring at the yellow-and-blue checkered border of her wallpaper, tears dripping onto the pile of letters that lay spread out before her on the bed:

_Dearest,_

_All of us still hold you in our hearts in this time of great sadness. Please write and let us know you are well, or at least as well as you can be, considering. As I've said before, you are welcome at the Burrow any time._

_Love,_

_Mrs. Weasley_

_Hermione,_

_It's been so long since anyone's heard anything from you, and Ron and Ginny are driving me bonkers with their worrying. Seriously though, I'm more than a bit worried myself. Seems nothing is as hard as losing your parents, and I know it must still hurt, must still be such a shock . . . Sometimes it helps me to think that my mum and dad are watching me, seeing me grow up and do great things, even if they can't be here. I bet yours are watching you too. I hope you are happy at your new place. It sounded like it in your first letter, but that was nearly two months ago . . . You're my best friend, Hermione. Please write. Term starts soon and we'd like to all meet up before._

_Harry_

_Miss Granger,_

_The staff send their deepest regrets that so many of us were kept from your parents' funeral by duties of the Statute and the Order. Please know that you are in all of our thoughts and that should you need anything, before term begins or after, you may call upon any of us._

_With Deepest Sympathy,_

_Pfs. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Sprout, Sinistra, and Flitwick_

_HERMIONE?_

_Please write. Please. It's all I can do to keep from getting Fred and George to help me & Harry sneak away to check on you. I hate that you're hurting. Send us something, anything!_

_Ron_

Wiping her nose on the sleeve of a discarded jumper, Hermione shoved the letters back in a tight pile with those that had come before and pushed the lot under her bed. Write? How could she, and what would she tell them? That yes, she knows Harry is only trying to help and that she misses Ron and him both, but this is a different pain than the one they have imagined? That she couldn't call on her professors no matter how much she longed to, and that nothing in the world would help her more than an escape to the Burrow, even though that was the one thing she could not have?

No, she wouldn't write, hadn't written. Let them believe that Jacob was afraid of owls or that she had spent the summer with a case of mono or some other muggle malady. Let them believe that her grief for her parents was so great it struck her senseless. After all, it almost had two months ago when the uniformed officers had stood on the porch, speaking dismembered words like "accident," "sorry," and "if you'll just come with us . . ."

No, she was determined not to think about that now. She wouldn't go there again, not when there was so much else to grieve. Let them believe whatever they wanted. She'd figure out something before the term began.

Yet, Hermione could not stop her thoughts from wandering back to that night, barely a week after the end of last term. She rifled through her new Potions book, ordered by owl, and tried a fifteenth jab at _Hogwarts: A History_. She started a journal entry brainstorming possible slogans for volunteer campaigns she'd like to start for S.P.E.W., tried to close her mind to all but the feel of her prefect badge in her hand, the smell of fresh parchment.

Still, the images came and with them the guilt and accusations. Why hadn't she thought to put protective spells on her parents' car in this stormy weather, even if was against the law? Why had she ever taught Crookshanks to enjoy riding around with them, never insisting that he only go in the car in a seatbelt-secured crate? And why hadn't her mother told her about Jacob?

Lost in her wondering and drifting to sleep, Hermione did not hear the footsteps on the stairs nor the whirr of the battered sneakoscope that she had leaned against the door to provide just such a warning. It was the light that startled her out of her reverie, the light and the shadow he cast in it.

* * *

Hermione tried to count the splinters in the eaves above her, "one, seven, thirteen," tried to alphabetically list all of the spells she had learned in the past year, tried even to bring her thoughts back to that night and the policemen at the door, despite the pain it would bring.

It had to be better than being here, in her body, with the creaks of the bed springs sharp in her ears and the hot salt of tears, she didn't remember starting, now burning in her eyes. She tried not to smell the sweat and the gin, to hear his murmurings and whispers of "That's my girl." But it was the same as every other night-She still saw, still heard, and worse of all, still _felt_, everything-the ropes sharp against her wrists, the subtler pains in a dozen other places.

Hermione could barely move beneath the pressing weight but was determined not to cry out, knowing that the slightest resistance would only cause him to prolong this. Hadn't she learn that? Hadn't he taught her? Not that there had ever been much point in fighting. Her wand was still in the trunk that she could not get until term began, in storage with the heirlooms and keepsakes garnered from her childhood home before the sale. She hadn't known she'd need it then, but it was only her grief that made her forget to fetch it. And as for fighting him off in other ways, she wished perhaps more that she could have the wand to heal the hurts that each attempt at that had earned her.

With the tense grip of trimmed fingernails on her shoulders and a guttural groan, it ended. Hermione pressed her eyes closed, feeling the slack that meant her body was once again hers. She heard the shuffle of his lean-muscled limbs away from her bed, but still she did not move, terrorized by the thought that the slightest gesture, the wrong cast of moonlight on her breast, would bring him right back as it had once or twice before. No, she would wait, wait beyond the closing of the door and the sound of Wingtip on wooden step. Wait until the clink of glasses and the hum of Late Night talk shows confirmed that he had found other games.

She would wait, and then curl up, and then let come what tears may.


	2. Unit 403

Watching the back lights of the polished Bentley fade into the distance, Hermione sighed and leaned against the cool aluminum siding of Grundel's Storage, unit 403. Steadying her nerves with what thoughts she may, she tried to be thankful for small graces, for the fact that bringing her here had been deemed servants' work which meant no long car ride with HIM, for the fact that she was here at all. With a deep breath, she checked her watch, noting that it was already almost four. As much as she wanted to curl her battered body upon the pavement and sleep until the sun had baked every hurt out of her, she knew there was too much to be done. She had to choose what she would take, pack her trunk more properly, summon the Knight Bus, select her final purchases at Diagon Alley, and make haste to the Burrow if she hoped to get any sleep before their morning trip to the station.

_First things first though_, she thought, as she slid the lid of her trunk open and fished around until a calming cylinder of wood met her hand. _First, we mend_. Wincing, she whispered the right spell at each cut, bruise, and cracked rib. She lingered, took a deep breath, and then forced herself to face more sensitive areas, driven by the pain to address the one part of her body that she now loathed.

She knew it was a risk, using magic outside of school, but she couldn't very well be greeted by Molly, Harry, Ron, all the them, with a blackened eye, a bloodied lip, and more scars than one of the twins' post-match Quidditch bats. Her only hope was in the knowledge that they tracked the magic, and not the witch and wizard, and that, as they were small, innocuous spells done with no muggles in the near vicinity, they may not raise any alarm.

Satisfied by a glimpse in the mirrored top of her parents' antique dresser, she set about the other tasks at hand, and riffled through the box of papers adjacent to her trunk. There she found the normal footprints of a muggle-turned-wizard life-Christmas cards, grade school drawings, her acceptance letter from Hogwarts, bank statements, and birth certificates. She lingered over her own. Reginald Granger. So, yes, he _was_ the father listed. His name was right there, next to the loopy scrawl of the mother she missed so dearly. No, she missed them both. Reginald had been her father; the paper was right, and nothing they said would change her mind on it.

Hermione remembered the shock as she sat in the police station and the kindly old woman called "Beatle" with the knotted wood cane and heavily-powdered eyes had tried to explain.

* * *

"You see, dearie, under the law you are still a minor, and while foster care is an option, the system's quite overrun and the best we can do for now is a group home. I know this is all a shock, but I assure you, Jacob Mattleby is your flesh and blood, and will provide you with a better home than most can."

"But he's a stranger!"

"They're all strangers really, dear. You have no other living kin of age and means to take you in. Besides, and I know this is hard for you, but he is your parent"

"No!," Hermione interrupted her, "Reginald Granger was my father. My _only _father, and now he's gone, and you're trying to say, you're trying to . . ."

Casting an empathetic glance at the tears welling in Hermione's eyes, Mrs. Beatle continued more gently, "I know, my dear, I know. You loved Reginald, and he loved you very much, I am quite sure. Legally, he was your father, and it matters not whose genes you share. But still, biologically, Jacob is your father too, and I believe, though you don't know him, that he may love you more than you realize."

"But why then, why did I never see him? Why did my mother keep me from him, not tell me?"

"I posed the very same question during my home visit this morning. You have to understand, Hermione, he and your mother were very, very young when they fell in love, eloped, and conceived you. The relationship was never, he says, a 'well-chosen' one, though not by fault on either of their parts, and when he received a promotion right before your birth that meant moving to America, they came to an agreement. He didn't want you to long for a father who was built only of pictures and letters, and when your mother met Reg and fell in love the next year, he gave up his custodial rights, and supported the other man's adoption of you. A new birth certificate was drawn up, and it was agreed that your mother would write to him of your life, but that you would not be told of his until you were of age. Nothing, he told me, has pained him more than giving you up, especially since he has moved back to Britain. His only solace was that he had never met you because he feared once he did, he would want you for his own. A stranger, yes he is, but one who faced great sorrow to give you a life as free of confusion as it could be."

"Confusion, as if this isn't!" Hermione huffed, regretting using so sharp a tone with someone only trying to help, yet nonetheless unable to dull the urge to anchor herself in anger and keep her hurt at bay.

"No one, I repeat _no one_, could have foreseen this tragedy," the old woman sighed gently. "Hermione, dear, Jacob wept when your mother's will led us to him and we told him the news. I'm sure your own pain is even greater. Perhaps he and your mother were right to keep you in the dark; perhaps it was the greatest blunder they ever made. Either way, I assure you, he wants to rectify it, to give you a home now."

"But I have a choice, I mean, you said there were options. Perhaps if I wrote to my friends, one of them might . . ."

"Yes, yes, you have a choice. But as we explained, the home must be court-approved and time is pressing. You can choose whether or not to live with him, but not just any living arrangement that is pleasing. We've agreed to let you stay at the Children's Center tonight as Jacob must miss the funeral to put affairs for your well-being in order. However, should you choose not to go to live with him tomorrow, as was approved, we must know and notify the group home of your arrival pending the securement of a suitable foster family. Please, dearie, consider giving the man a chance. I've met few who were brighter, kinder, or more noble, and many still trust this old lady for first impressions."

"I, I can change my mind though, if I don't like him, if he doesn't like me?"

"You only have to call the Center. The number on this card, right here, and we can talk about your arrangement any time you wish. All of your things, except the clothing and personal effects we packed for you, will still be safely in storage. All of your friends will still be your friends though they live a little further away. If it doesn't work out, I promise you we'll find something that does. Hermione, I know it might seem right now that you will never be happy again, but Jacob is a good man, and you are a bright young woman with much success in her future. Give him a chance, he'll see that . . ."


	3. Jacob Have I Hated

Shaking herself free of the memory, Hermione sighed and placed her birth certificate neatly back among the other papers. She felt no malice toward the old woman, who only wanted to help and surely couldn't have known. No, in the end, living with him was her own choice and not calling the Center to report his heinous acts was her own weakness. Besides, Jacob was nothing if not charming.

She remembered the friends and colleagues who would often stop by in the evenings for dinner or a drink, how they all looked at him with an undershading of awe in their eyes and spoke to him as if their words fell on the ears of some mortal god. Even she in her sorrow could not help but be a bit awed by him at first.

She remembered crossing the neatly trimmed lawn of his stone mansion on her third day as an orphan, anxious and terrified to meet him, yet somehow almost immediately put at ease by the twinkle in his rich brown eyes and the warmth in his handshake. He was tall and well-muscled with only a distinguished hint of gray in his rich black hair. And (though he cut a nearly royal figure in body and income both) he was dressed comfortably in a woolen red sweater and black windbreaker.

His first words to her were of apology and sympathy, his first action to show her his impressive collection of books. He had a hardback of every muggle favorite Hermione had ever read or even heard of, as well as leather-bound copies of unknown long tales in both her own language and several others.

She remembered also thinking how sweet it was that he had had the quilt from her parents' bed shipped over and placed in her new room, that he had sought out her old neighbors to ask about foods she enjoyed and had had several of her favorites prepared by his staff for her first night. Even more relieving to her, in her then innocence, was the conversation that occurred between the two of them during that meal, after he had sent everyone else away.

"I want you to know that your mother wrote frequently and proudly of you, telling me many things. I know, for example, about Hogwarts and your life and friends there."

"You do?" Hermione inquired, nearly dropping her fork in her surprise.

"Yes, of course, and I couldn't be happier to have a witch come from my blood. No, now, don't get me wrong. I am no wizard, but still, it is a great accomplishment of which you should be proud. You'll have to forgive me for knowing little of your magical world, but I am eager to learn what you may teach me and to support you in whatever you wish to do. Would that be agreeable?"

"Yes, I mean thank you, of course."

"Well then," he spoke with a gentle smile that showed the smallest hint of laugh lines forming on his face, "You've had a tough couple of days, and though it won't fix much, I was hoping some chocolate ice-cream may nonetheless bring you a smile?"

Hermione cringed to think how naive, how innocent she had been then. How, even in all the hurt of her loss, she had given him such immediate trust and had taken a liking to him so quickly. What had changed she wondered, in the five hours between that conversation and their next? Was it something she had done? But it must have been. It couldn't have been the alcohol, for he drank, but not that much. And she must have been the only one, as every other woman they encountered over the summer seemed only to adore him.

Still, she couldn't recall what signal she had given him, what offense she had paid him, to make the next set of events unfold. She only remembered sleeping a bit restlessly in her bed, coming out of a dream to find a hand beneath her pajama top and him sitting there with a wild look she had seen on no man's face before.

It wasn't as if she had gone willing though, she told herself, at least not at first. She remembered pulling away, running for the door. She remembered his words following her, "I only wanted to feel your heartbeat, Hermione! I'm a doctor; it's not what you think!"

It was with regret that she remembered her hesitance, how she came back to sit down on the bed, thinking herself perhaps wrong and confused, ignoring her instincts and assuring herself that it had really been all in her mind.

How quickly he then changed again, pinning her down the moment she was within reach, everything a blur as he slammed a piece of duct tape on her mouth before she could even understand what was happening. She remembered his laugh, he was laughing of all things, when he teasingly chastised her for playing hard to get and then falling for his clever lie.

She tried to fight back, even against all his strength; she tried to do magic without a wand. She hit out until he had her wrists tied, kicked out until he pinned her legs down and open with his knees. She tried everything, but was powerless against what raged inside of him.

She remembered the after, when she was curled up on top of her blankets, gently rubbing one sore wrist and trying to let her hair hide her tears from him. She felt the congealed stickiness of her own blood and what mixed with it, felt that as it leaked out of her it might be taking her soul along as well.

She had felt empty before, empty in her first month at Hogwarts when she feared she had no friends, empty as she stood holding Harry the night that Sirius died, empty as she stood on the porch while the police tried to tell her about her parents, and then again at the funeral when friends, acquaintances, and strangers offered awkward hugs and spoke sympathetic words that could bring no peace. Yes, Hermione had been empty, but never, never had she felt empty like this.

"I know it is painful, my pet," Jacob had cooed, as he made her cringe by running three fingers softly through her hair, "It is always painful for the woman her first time. But, honestly, virginity is overrated, and you will soon learn that. You are pretty, my Hermione, and I hate to mar you body by force, but I am your father now, and you must know that you must obey me. Resist me, and you will find yourself with new cuts and bruises. Allow me to take you when I ask, and you may find that I can bring you as much pleasure as pain. There, there, my sweet. The choice is yours. You may shower," he added, making her almost jolt out of her shell as he touched the place from which her blood ran and then wiped his hand disdainfully on her nightgown. "And you may throw your sheets away. I shall bring you new ones."

With that Jacob had risen from the bed, stretched casually with a yawn, and headed for the door. Stopping there, he had turned, locked his gaze onto hers, and spoke once more. "Of course, I am assuming you will speak of this to no one. I am a rich and powerful man, Hermione, who could assure that few would believe the lies of the troubled, attention-starved teenager he so selflessly took in. And even if they did believe you, do you think they would ever look at you the same again? You brought this on yourself; you are to blame, and they will know it. After all, I am as handsome and desirable as I am powerful, and who would believe I would stoop to my own mangy daughter if not coerced by her twisted passions? You will service me, and you will do it willingly, for know this: If ever I am accused of any ill toward you, I will be found innocent, and have to take measures to rid my daughter of the lies in her head, measures that may include putting a stop to her magic, her contact with her friends, and her continued schooling outside of this house. And all that can be done, so think on it."

* * *

Sitting on the storage unit floor, Hermione found new tears in her eyes and was startled by the clarity with which his words still rang in her head. No, she told herself, it doesn't matter now. He was cruel, but he was right. No one would have believed her, and it was best she didn't tell. She was back at Hogwarts now, or almost, just as he had promised. He didn't know about the winter holidays, and that gave her nine months, nine months to figure out how no one may know and yet she may never go back. There had to be a way.

Rising and wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeves, Hermione took one last look at the hodgepodge of items that represented her life before. She had already stopped too long to linger over each one, the Val de Reyes box that reminded her of how her parents had often shared a glass of wine after dinner, swapping stories with her about their day. The old dental journals that made her recall sitting on the back porch trying to capture moths in a jar as her parents read snippets to each other and poked fun at the haughty wording . . .

Enough time was lost already, she had to get to Diagon Alley before Flourish and Blotts closed. Besides, she knew, and was ashamed to know, that which was before her represented only the girl she used to be, the untainted, blameless one that she could never be again.

Still, she missed that girl, and more than anything in the world-the parents that had loved her.


	4. The Burrow

Exhausted, Hermione tried switching her bags from her right arm to her left as she made her way up the windy path to the Burrow's front door. She was thankful that she had to manage only these because the Knight Bus conductor had been kind enough to magick her trunk to the Burrow when he dropped her off at the Leaky Cauldron.

She was also thankful that, due to the lateness of her school supply shopping, she had not run into anyone she knew really well, anyone who would have already heard about her parents and who knew her well enough to want to comfort her and talk. In a moment, she feared, she would have to face more of that than she could bear anyway.

_Maybe_, she thought, _it would have been better to have stayed at the Leaky Cauldron_. But then, shaking her head, she remembered why she had made this choice. Harry and Ron were worried enough, and she mustn't do much else out of character. Besides, he knew about the Leaky Cauldron, or at least he might from her mother who had been there once, and even if he was a muggle, well, the Burrow just felt safer.

The weight of her own body screaming to sag against the stoop, Hermione managed the last step up to the porch. Such soreness, however, was no stranger or shock, and she knew it would remain until her muscles and bones renewed themselves completely from the previous months; she had wasted little magic on them, for it was risk enough to perform the healing spells she had.

As she sighed at the choice and raised her hand to knock, the door flew open, revealing Molly in a plaid robe and slippers. "Oh dearest, dearest," the older woman tsked softly, wrapping Hermione in a hug that made her drop her bags, "Are you hungry? Look at you, of course! Practically wasted away. We've all been ever so worried. Oh, but dear, I do go on. How are you?," she inquired with earnest, stepping back to take Hermione's face into her hands and look upon it with a warmth so motherly it was almost unbearable.

"Na, no, Mrs. Weasly. That is, I'm just really tired and I, I had something to eat, in the, in Diagon Alley, I mean." It was strange to hear her own voice give way to so many words. In the last month of Jacob's reign, she had spoken little if at all, and only when strictly required. Now the words felt foreign on her tongue, as if she had learned the language in some primary class and now, years later, been expected to travel to a different country and speak it.

"Oh, yes, you would have; it's so late. You must be exhausted. Harry and Ron insisted on waiting up for you of course, but I wouldn't have them keeping you up all night. Sent them to bed and put a nice silencing charm on Ron's room so they wouldn't hear you if they're still trying. Of course, but if you want to see them, I suppose I can see if they're awake still?"

"Th-thanks, Mrs. Weasly, but I, I'd rather, I mean I'll see them in the morning, I want to. But right now, I just want, want to sleep."

"Of course, sweetheart. Of course you do. I've got an extra bed in Ginny's room all made up for you. Here, please let me take your things . . ."

* * *

Settling herself on the bed, Hermione looked guiltily at Ginny's rising-and-falling chest beneath the covers on the cot. Really, the red-head could have taken the bed. It was all the same to Hermione, who had taken to sleeping on her floor most nights at the mansion, where there were fewer physical memories of the mattress beneath her.

Still, this bed felt different, a small grace. And it was far from his reach, which was an even greater one. She would sleep tonight, more deeply she hoped than she had in so long, for sleep was something Hermione never had enough of anymore and the one place where she was free from her mind.

It turned out to not be that easy though. Hermione tossed and turned, fighting one worry or image from her head, only to find it replaced by another, finding one comfortable position, only to turn from it in her anxiety over seeing everyone the next day. As she drifted between sleep and wake, every sound in the Burrow became a footstep and every shadow a monster taking his shape, until in her frustration, she turned over and pressed the pillow over her head.

An electric shock went through her when, as she did so, she felt a hand on her shoulder and another taking the pillow away. Her mind raced with protests of the impossibility as she forced her gaze upwards and it met the one face she feared more than any other, more than failing grades, more than Voldemort, more even than her own death. "No," she tried to mumble, but though her mouth formed the word, no sound accompanied it. She tried a scream, and heard only silence, silence broken by his soft laughter.

"Did you honestly think you'd be safe here, with nothing but a few teenagers and a couple of frumpy old biddies to protect you?" he chuckled.

Hermione tried to look away from him, but could only stare past him to the empty cot. Where had Ginny gone, and how had he found her, known which room she was in? From the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar motion that made her quickly turn her look back. She watched, with horror, as Jacob drew a wand from his pocket.

"What? Surprised that I have secrets? Surprised that you're not really a Mudblood after all?," he taunted her, as he pointed the long stick of oak at her and muttered an incantation.

A pale light wafted toward her, and then dissipated when it touched her, taking with it her blanket and clothes. Then, he turned it on himself, to the same effect. Fear pulsing through her, Hermione fought the instinct to freeze up and struggled to stand, but she found her hands tied by the old familiar ropes. When had that happened? Why hadn't she felt it? Could he do nonverbal spells, change her body in ways that she wouldn't even notice or feel?

That thought was all it took to allow the paralysis of her fear to overtake her, and she lay there helpless as he climbed into her bed, on top of her, as he somehow caused her more pain than he had even that first night. "No" she thought, writhing under his touch and pressing her eyes closed against the tears. "No, please make it stop. Just kill me, but don't, not this, not again . . ."

As Hermione wordlessly begged for freedom and tried to force her mind to help her leave her body, she felt a strange sensation, as if he was growing lighter, less real, as if he was only a spectral form that she could feel faintly inside herself.

The edges of her world grew hazy, he faded further, and she found herself gripping the sheets in fear. Gripping the sheets-her hands weren't tied, her blankets were still there, and he, he . . . she forced herself to open her eyes. He wasn't really there. It had been a dream, all of it, just a horrible nightmare. He wasn't here, he wasn't a wizard . . .

In her relief, she started to cry anew, and then she felt it, a hand on her shoulder shaking her, the sound of whispered words. Her whole body on edge, she pulled away violently, tumbling out of bed onto the floor, covers and all. She began to cry out, as she heard his footsteps coming around to where she lay sprawled, "No, please don't, don't touch me. Don't hurt me. Please I can't do it. Don't make me. Not that. Anything but that. Please, don't hurt me, don't touch me, please, don't, don't."

Allowing her own repeated words to fade in volume, Hermione was able to hear what echoed them. It wasn't his voice, it was . . . she opened her eyes again-Ginny.


	5. Lies

"Herm," Ginny spoke in a panic, kneeling down beside her and taking her hands, "What is it? Are you hurt? Do you want me to fetch mum and dad?"

"No" was the most she could manage at first, but Ginny seemed unsatisfied, and Hermione made herself offer more. "It was . . . just a bad dream . . . about my, um, parents, but . . . I'm okay." She hated the lie, but she knew that if one tolerable thing had come out of their death, it was the excuses it would give her to cover up any changes in herself, any sadness or fear noticed by others.

"Oh, . . . Do you want to talk about it?" Ginny asked tentatively, "about the dream, or your parents, or . . . I don't want to upset you more, but it seemed pretty awful. I didn't mean to scare you or nothin . . . you were just crying and shaking in your sleep, and talking . . ."

"Talking?" Hermione gulped, terrified that she had given away even the smallest morsel of the truth. "What . . . what did I say?"

"I umm. . . I couldn't make most of it out, and once I realized you were having a nightmare, I wanted to wake you, so . . . " Ginny hesitated, as if unsure of whether or not she wanted to answer Hermione's question. Then, she continued, her voice quiet, comforting, "You said, "no" and "stop" and I don't really remember what else. Tell me about it, Hermione. No what? Stop what? It sounded like someone was hurting you."

Hermione said nothing.

"Herm, was someone hurting you, in your dream, I mean? You can tell me, you know . . ."

Hermione swallowed, fighting past the images still lingering in her mind. She wanted to say "yes" but couldn't make the word come out. So she settled on "No." It was easier. "No, Ginny, no one was hurting me. I was dreaming about . . . when they told me, about my mom and dad. I didn't want to hear the words, that was all. I wanted them to stop telling me. It . . . it wasn't so bad, I was just shaken up. Really," she finished with a steady voice, forcing a smile that didn't meet her eyes, "I'm okay now." Another lie.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah . . . let's just, just go back to bed, please?"

"Yeah," the younger girl sighed, helping Hermione up and then wrapping her in a quick hug, "If you're really okay." Yet, after she made sure Hermione was securely in bed and approached her own cot, she turned one last time, the look of concern returning to her face. "Herm . . ."

"Yeah, Ginny?"

"Listen. You know, if you ever do want to talk or something, about anything, anything at all . . . I know I don't hang out with you and the guys much, but you're like a sister to me, like the only one I'll ever have in this family . . . and if you ever need anything, well, I just mean that I'm here for you, to listen, or whatever."

* * *

Hermione did not remember falling asleep again but when she awoke the next morning, barely rested, Ginny's cot was empty, and she mulled over the younger girl's last words to her as she dressed.

Ginny hadn't heard anything that couldn't be explained by her lies; Hermione was sure of it. Yet, she had a sense that she hadn't believed them, not fully. She would have to do better, be better at hiding it. Yes, she was grieving and could be expected to, from so sudden a loss, for some time to come, but she would have take precautions, and soon, to make sure that there were no more slips like last night.

Groggily, she wandered into the hall and was glad that she spotted Harry and Ron rather than the other way around. Thus, she was able to prepare herself for when they tackled her with hugs and to not cringe or jump out of her skin.

Breakfast was brief, but nonetheless an endless barrage of questions, that the brown-haired witch found easier and easier to answer, as she got used to being around so many people, used to lying so readily. Her new home was fine and nothing exciting to talk about. Yes, her biological father was _the _Jacob Mattleby who had written one of the funny muggle medical texts that Arthur had in his collection. Yes, he would be delighted to meet all of them some day but was mostly a very busy man. No, she did not want any more flapjacks.

Thankfully, their fussing over her had to come to an end as Mrs. Weasley admonished Ron and Ginny for leaving their socks on the washing line the night before and rushed around wondering why she was blessed only with children who were inept at doing their own packing.

Although the fussing resumed during the ride to the station, when they got there it was busier than usual, and Hermione had only to muddle through the long goodbyes, punctuated by Mrs. Weasley's tears, Christmas invitations, and promises to write. Then, she was free to step on the train, where she quickly excused herself from the boys with the pretense of prefect duties and found an empty cabin in the back to charm a lock onto.

Alone, she knew she could not sleep, so instead she tried to put the ride to good use, pouring over her potions text until she hit upon what she swore she had seen in one of her browsings.

Brennbroffer's Elixir-a potion developed by Eugene Brennbroffer in 1893 which, when taken with milk before bed, stops snoring, sleepwalking, sleep-talking, excessive drooling, and other embarrassing sleep related maladies for up to eight hours at a time. Ingredients: water, 4 fig leaves, two lizard toes (female), eight drops of freshly squeezed lime juice, two pinches of shaved coconut, and three Barnibus roots, chopped. Brewing Time: 1 hour.

Hermione heaved a sigh of relief. She had some work to do tonight and some things to pilfer, but at least she knew she could sleep without the fear of screaming her secret to her suitemates.

* * *

Later that night, Hermione sat on the bed in her dormitory sorting her schoolbooks for the next day and waiting for the nearly-finished elixir. She hadn't needed to explain the potion to her suitemates, Lavender and Pavrati, who had roomed with her for years and thus assumed her brewing to be an early jump on practical homework.

While they chattered around her about which professional Quidditch player they'd marry, her thoughts drifted to the performance she had put on earlier. She had had enough time on the train to practice her lines and steel her spirit, so she had actually managed to pull off something approaching normalcy at dinner and it gave her a meager satisfaction.

Of course, many of the Gryffindors and most of the professors, even the headmaster himself, had come to where she sat between Harry and Ron and offered their condolences along with whatever else might help her during "her troubling time of loss." Somehow she had found the strength to accept each word with only a brimming of tears, though several of the hugs made her fight back a shudder. Her mind knew she had nothing to fear of any of them, but her body needed time to catch up, to be able to interpret touch as something other than hurt.

Dinner itself had been surprisingly edible, and Hermione realized she could sustain the smallest bit of an appetite when not sitting at HIS table. It was enough to allow her to take in half a potato, a bite of steak, and even most of a strawberry tart-nourishment her body sorely needed. The distraction of her surroundings, she knew, played no small part in this. She found herself able to focus on the sorting of a small golden-haired girl named Caroline Spotts into Ravenclaw, able to follow Harry and Ron's arms with her eyes as they tried to catch a meatball that Seamus had magicked into a sauce-covered snitch.

Hermione further found herself able to listen to Luna, even with a glint of amusement, as she described the latest conspiracy her father had uncovered. Apparently, most of the cauldrons now being sold to the students were laced with invisible fairy dust, an element that would make it harder to stir their contents. According to the Quibbler, this was to tire their collective wrists and, over time, weaken the reflexes of England's future Quidditch players. The fairies themselves, who were known to bet much gold on the wins of other countries, were most likely behind it, and Luna's father had made her a special cloth that, when wrapped around her arm, would negate the effects.

She barely even startled when Ron's elbow nudged her under the table and he snickered at the grass-stained, rainbow-striped cut of wool that Luna pulled from her bag. True, the hurt never left her completely, but for a second, for a minute here or there, it was like the shadow side of her former self rose up and she half-forgot who she had become that summer.

It wasn't much, but it was something she could cling to, Hermione thought, as she checked her watch and gave the potion a final stir. She pretended to check its color against her textbook and flip through a few more pages before nonchalantly giving it a cool academic nod and carrying it to the lavatory to be discarded of.

Although Hermione doubted that the other girls were watching, knew they probably didn't care what she drank and why, she couldn't stop the paranoia that had become a companion since Ginny first hit too close to the truth. She had to watch her every move, for fear that, without her knowing, someone else might be.

After gulping down the right dose of the thin, sour substance, Hermione stored the rest in a rinsed-out shampoo bottle, splashed cold water on her face, and allowed herself a quick glance in the mirror.

She had done well with her cuts and bruises, not a one showed. But when had she gotten so thin? So pale? When had her hair become so dull or her eyes so lifeless? Shaking her head, and looking away, Hermione headed for the door. It didn't matter; she wasn't who she was, but so long as no one but her saw exactly who she'd become, nothing else was important. She'd never thought herself particularly beautiful to begin with, and the haunted edge her features had acquired didn't change her opinion. _Let me be uglier still_, she thought, _perhaps that will keep him away. _

Arriving back in the room, she noticed the silence. While she was in the lavatory, the other girls had left off their conversation and instead turned to their pillows to dream of the Beaters and Seekers whose names were doodled on their extra parchment. Sleep, Hermione considered, was not such a bad idea, but she feared that even though her demons would not be heard, they would be seen and by her alone. True, she was safe nowhere if not at Hogwarts, but the protection it afforded her body did little for her mind.

She had looked, on the train and while the potion brewed, through the index of every book she owned, but she had found no mention of a spell, charm, or potion that would take bad dreams away. She supposed she should check the library, if no one else was around. She supposed she could ask a professor, repeat the lie about dreaming of her parents, but she was afraid to heighten their concern, even about so innocent a matter. For now, she would have to hope that the change in her surroundings, the slight ease of the pressure upon her mind, would suffice and allow her to forget him.

During the night, however, as she woke again and again, tangled in her sheets and moist with sweat and tears, she came to realize the truth. Hogwarts or not, she may never be free again.


	6. Diversion

If the antics of that dinner could be described as a brief distraction, then the combined work of Hermione's eight NEWT level classes, prefect duties, and sleep-spell research was nothing short of a grand diversion.

She attacked each task with a ferocity few scholars could match, checking and cross-checking references, memorizing entire passages of magical history, and revising her scrolls well into the night. If her professors had been impressed before, they now thought her a prodigy, and if her friends had once joked about her obsession with good marks, they now wondered how they could have considered the possibility of her ever getting a bad one.

Scratching out a poorly worded incantation and practicing a nonverbal _Accio_ to fetch a new sheet of parchment, Hermione allowed her thoughts to linger again on the intensity of her work. True, she was exhausted. True, part of her had started to miss walks along the lake, leisurely baths, Saturday picnics with Ron and Harry . . . but no, she didn't deserve those things now.

The more she filled her mind with, the more it pushed out the terror and heartache of the memories nestled there. Homework--necessary, unnecessary, or extra credit--gave her whole blocks of minutes when she couldn't think of anything else, even whole seconds when she forget her hurt and her hate of her own being. It provided her an activity when she couldn't sleep, despite the headaches brought on by her late-night reading, and it gave her a valid excuse to opt out of many conversations, where she never knew what to say and always feared that the subject would turn to her.

Besides, she still saw the boys, almost as much as ever. Their jokes and whispered intrigues had become a nice background melody to her studies in the common room, and she almost felt as if she had value, though she knew it wasn't true, when they proclaimed her genius over finding an answer that eluded them or bashfully thanked her for once again practically rewriting one of their lengthy Potions essays.

She even kept up the pretense of enjoying some of their old activities, faking cheers at the first Quidditch match against Slytherin and nods of agreement as she sat with them at meals and the conversation buzzed around her. They didn't need to know that there was always a book concealed in her lap or a series of spelled being rehearsed in her mind.

Not that they hadn't noticed anything was wrong, or tried to confront her about it. She remembered when, in the fourth week, she had been sitting in a chair by the fire, half-listening to their description of how a boggart had gotten into the boys' bathroom and turned into an tap-dancing, tutu-clad Pansy Parkinson when Dean Thomas cast _Riddikulus_. She faked a smile and a laugh before turning back to her work, but noticed the halt in the conversation.

"You know, you've been, err, awful quiet lately," Harry said, the words unmistakably directed at her.

"Yeah, mate. You a'right?," Ron added.

"Me?," Hermione asked, looking to stall until she had calmed her panic and found strength for her voice. "I . . . I don't know, just a lot of work to do I guess, all those extra classes, trying to concentrate . . ."

"Yeah, but you've always had a lot of work to do, and it's never been like this," Ron countered, as Harry added, almost inaudibly, "And you've seemed, well, a bit sad."

"Sad? No, I umm . . . I mean my parents and everything, but no, not so much anymore. I'm okay, really."

"Are you sure, Herm? Cuz, you know, if you wanted to talk about them, about your parents . . . It must be so hard. I miss mine like crazy sometimes, and I didn't even know them."

"No, Harry. Listen, don't look at me like that. You didn't upset me. I just . . . yeah, okay, maybe I'm a little sad sometimes, of course I miss them, but mostly I just want to do well on my work. NEWT level stuff is serious, and my parents, well, I'd like to honor them by doing as well as I can in case they're watching. I am okay, and I've always come to you guys if ever anything was seriously wrong, haven't I?"

"Yeah, suppose so, mate. We were just . . . well nevermind then, but you know if you do wanna talk, well . . . okay, then," Ron mumbled, a bit embarrassed, as Harry gave her a sympathetic nod.

Hermione had always been a little touched in previous years by how awkward Ron found emotion and yet how much he seemed to honestly care, how much they both cared. But couldn't they understand that she didn't deserve it, at least not anymore? Couldn't they see that she still loved them, but that she herself was now unlovable? But of course not, and that was the very reason she didn't tell them. She deserved their hatred, for the lying, ungrateful friend that she was, but she would not actively seek it by giving them the truth of her hideous shame.

At least their concerns, from what she could tell, were focused upon her adjustment to her loss and not lingering upon any major new worries. And why shouldn't they be? She had been careful to take her potion nightly so no other students would learn of her nightmares. She had trained her thoughts to focus on their goodness, so that she no longer felt uncomfortable or tempted to cringe when they touched her. She had learned to fight back her tears during the day, releasing them in long torrents only when her face met her pillow at night.

True, she sometimes still jumped half out of her skin if someone approached her too suddenly, and she could do little to mask the bags under her eyes or the paleness of her complexion without resorting to the beauty charms she loathed. But thus far, no one had seemed to notice either of those two things.

No one, that is, except perhaps Ginny. Hermione tried over and over to convince herself that it was just another symptom of the paranoia brought on by trauma-frayed nerves and inadequate sleep, but often she felt as if the younger girl was watching her. Once, in week two, when she was walking down the corridor by the library, seemingly alone, a third-year boy had snuck up behind her with a water balloon, eliciting a scream. And there was Ginny, stepping round the corner, ready with her famous bat-bogey hex.

Several others times, in the common room, she had looked away to wipe a tear that was brought on by a stray memory and wouldn't retreat, only to catch Ginny giving her an empathetic glance.

Twice in the last month, the red-headed girl had corned her when she was alone to inquire about her well-being, offer a listening ear, or invite her to have a private cup of tea. Both times, she lied about other obligations that were pressing.

But Hermione couldn't allow herself to continue to worry about that. Her paranoia probably was making mountains of mole hills, and like Harry and Ron, Ginny was merely a friend who knew of the loss she had suffered, the sadness it brought, and the time she would need to recover. If the girl suspected more, she certainly hadn't said so, to Hermione or anyone else.

If anything was to be worried about, it was sleep, for the first six weeks of the term had flown by and she had, as of yet, failed to find any remedy for what ailed her. There were potions for falling asleep more quickly, and spells to speak to others in their sleep. There were elixirs that guaranteed you'd get twice the rest in half the time, and insta-nap powders that wore off after a fifteen-minute doze. There was, however, nothing that kept him from coming after her night after night, nothing that prevented her from waking to the renewed pain of still feeling his body upon hers. Nothing that would give her a single night's peace.

It had to be her own stupidity she thought, and if she was a braver girl, she'd just invent something herself. But she wasn't brave, and hadn't she proven it? Hadn't she allowed him to violate her, night after night, because of her own inability to bear other physical pains or see the enactment of other threats? She had never enjoyed it, never stopped hating it, but what whore did see work as fun?

Maybe that was what had made it become easier with Harry and Ron, this ever-growing knowledge of herself and her true nature. The more she thought, as she tossed and turned at night, about what had happened to her, the more she realized that she didn't hate the maleness that they represented. They were good, no matter the shape of their bodies, and that was a fact she could cling to. She didn't even hate sex per se, in a different context, though she knew she would never understand the pleasures others found in such a loathsome act. And Jacob, well, okay, she did hate Jacob. She hated him for every horror he had shown her, every mark he left on her, every charming smile he had shown his servants or guests while he secretly fondled her under the table.

But hate him though she may, Hermione did not hate him the most. No, if anyone was to be named the most vile, if anyone deserved punishment and was unworthy of forgiveness, it was her. And Hermione did hate herself, so much that sometimes she shook with the intensity of it. That was why, despite the distractions homework provided, she could never allow herself another real moment of fun. That was why, despite the potions she sought, she secretly knew that she deserved every moment of dreamt torment.

She was the one who had agreed to the living arrangement, who had been too weak to fight him off, too afraid to call upon those who could stop him. She was the one who had tempted him with her abhorrent femininity and then turned traitor and liar to her friends. She was the selfish bitch who distracted those same friends, who stole from her potions master, who made the curve harder by practicing distractions she didn't deserve . . . She was, quite simply, a sad and tortured whore, but a whore nonetheless.


	7. Rumors

This hatred, along with her grief and fear, became a scar inside of her that twisted and grew with every passing day.

As the weeks wore on and fallen leaves turned to snow, she found herself spending more and more time alone with her tears, sleeping ever more fitfully. Ron and Harry remained a bit clueless about the real nature of her pain, and most of the professors and Gryffindors remained kind, attempting to encourage her with words about how her parents "loved her" and were "at peace" in the rare moments she could not publicly control her crying.

Every morning she swore to herself that she would remedy her actions, and most days she was able to put on a brave and happy face.

But even on those days, the pain grew progressively more unbearable, the thought of a new summer pressed upon her, and the feelings of her own helplessness and worthlessness grew. Slips were made, and on those nights she lay in bed chastising herself firmly for falling asleep in Transfiguration and crying out when McGonagall nudged her, or for breaking into sobs, in front of three first-years no less, when she came upon an tract about the virtue of virginity in an archaic collection of documents she was browsing.

It was for this reason that, when the students' second trip to Hogsmeade of the term was announced the week before Christmas break, she decided that she had to go. She had missed the first, faking a stomach flu so that she could lose herself in her work and avoid the press of others' glances upon her unworthy form.

She knew she couldn't miss another without garnering the suspicion of the boys, or worse McGonagall. Already, the older woman had pulled Hermione into her office twice, once early in the term and again after the in-class nightmare, to see if she needed "to talk about anything concerning" her, to ask if perhaps she was pushing herself too hard and why Hermione never seemed rested.

Yet, as she took a chair at The Three Broomsticks among Harry, Ron, Luna, and Neville, she regretted her decision to leave all her books and scrolls behind. Try as she may to focus on the butter beer in front of her or the shapes of the snowflakes wafting against the window, she could not. Nor could she make herself participate in the current conversation, which consisted mostly of gripes about Snape's latest homework assignment, punctuating with jibes about his new haircut, which gave him the appearance of trying to catch several streams of grease in a misshapen bowl.

No, instead, with less distraction that she had grown accustomed to, her thoughts drifted almost immediately toward Jacob. Feeling the tears and knowing that she was momentarily powerless to stop them, she slyly knocked her remaining drink over onto her robes, and quickly excused herself to perform a drying spell in the lavatory.

Then, safely tucked in a locked corner stall, she held her hands over her mouth, and as quietly as possible, allowed what welled up inside her to flow out.

Exhausted from the heaving sobs, and sure that no moisture could possibly remain in her, she tore off a piece of toilet paper with which to dab her eyes. It was then that she heard the voices . . .

"Did you see the way that Ron's hair looked, so, so like rugged today? Oh, and how tall he's gotten!," Lavender squealed.

"Him? Oh, yeah, I suppose. But you know who _I_ was looking at," Romilda Vane countered in a mock sultry tone.

"Suppose it's no use though, with them always dragging that baby about everywhere," Lavender sighed, "But it doesn't look like she's with them today at least."

"Lav, come one, that's not fair. Her parents died like what, six months ago?"

"I know, and really I am sorry about it and all that. But you don't have to room with her! It's like she's dragging it out on purpose for attention. Always sobbing in bed when she thinks everyone else is sleeping. Always moping around in the common room, where she's sure Harry and Ron will notice her."

"You're still worried that she likes him, huh, Lav? She's not as pretty as you are, you know."

"It's not that. Well, maybe a little. But still!"

"Do you think there's any truth to the rumors though? I mean that _has _to make you a little more confident."

_Rumors, _thought Hermione with a shiver, _what rumors? No one knew, no, no one could know! _She pressed her ear closer to the door and tried to quiet her breathing, even her heartbeat, as she strained to listen.

Romilda continued, "I have it on authority from several close sources that it is not Ron she's pining after. After all, haven't you noticed how often in the last couple of months, they _haven't _been together?"

"Okay, okay. So she does seem to put on a disappearing act a lot, but isn't she just in the library studying, trying to wow the professors or show Ron what a little genius she is?"

"No, in fact I'm there a lot myself, trying to bring up my charms grade since my mother's last Howler, and I see her less and less. No, my sources say that she's been sneaking off to the dungeons with various boys from other houses, everyone from fifth years to seventh years. Apparently, first it's her needing a shoulder to cry on about her parents, and then, it's her needing comfort in other ways . . ."

"The little slut!" Lavender squealed with delight, "Oh, tell me it's true! Anyone we know?"

"I don't know, but honestly, have you looked at her lately? I mean boys have low standards when it comes to doing certain things, but even Hufflepuffs would have too much pride to admit that they'd stooped to the walking zombie."

Hermione balled her fists and pressed them tightly to her eyes so that she could not cry. None of it was true, none of it even made sense.

If anything, she had snuck off to the dungeon lavatory several times to cry, or to the Room of Requirement to try brewing a new sleep potion. She'd never been with any boys, and why would they think . . .

But then she stopped herself, and as she heard the girls' voices fade and the door swing open and shut, it hit her. No one had to say anything, or make up any lie. She herself had started the rumors simply by being who she was. It was as she had feared, for although those close to her were still naive, those with more objectivity could sense the aura she must be giving off. Her very presence had to flash the word "whore" into the minds of those who saw her. From there, they just filled in the details.


	8. Sprout

That night, when she returned to Hogwarts, she began unpacking the trunk of clothes that she had planned to take to the Burrow. If feather-brains like Romilda and Lavender could see who she really was, then surely by now Molly, Arthur, Tonks, Lupin and all the rest of those she would have to face outside of school would see the truth too.

Of course she would have to make an excuse, and a good one if she didn't want to raise suspicion. She scratched the idea of playing sick, knowing that Molly would insist on taking care of her anyway. Even a contagious disease like Dragon Pox couldn't stop that woman from being motherly.

She also discarded the already worn-out excuse of homework, knowing Harry and Ron would only want her to take it along. Finally, after filling two pieces of parchment with half-hatched ideas, she hit upon something that might work.

* * *

"I'm sorry boys, you know how much I wanted to spend Christmas with all of you, but it was an honor to be asked and I can't turn Professor Sprout down!," Hermione explained, as the steam of the Hogwarts Express rose above them.

"Well then, stay here for the bloody vacation part, but at least talk to Dumbledore about setting up a Floo Connection for Christmas day! Mum'll be riffled if you aren't there for dinner," Ron countered, his face red with frustration and worry.

"I promise Ron, Harry, really, I'll try. I'll write to your mom and explain myself. I'm sure she'll understand. Besides, it's not like I'll be alone. Plenty of students always stay, especially the more studious seventh years, and it's only two weeks. I'll see you as soon as you're back, and we'll go down to Hagrid's, or meet your parents for dinner in Hogsmeade, or something . . ."

When she had finally convinced the boys to grudgingly board the train without her, she sighed in relief and began making her way back to the near-empty castle. Really, the plan had taken less effort than she thought it would, even if it made her hate the liar she had become even more.

She had only had to go to Professor Sprout and speak a few teary words about all the Christmas traditions she had shared with her parents, about how she knew the Weasleys meant well, but she wasn't ready to celebrate the holiday yet. Besides, she knew how much the woman's plants suffered in her absence and Hagrid had never been nearly as adept with them as he was with the legged creatures he kept. And wouldn't it help Hermione's herbology NEWT to have all the extra practice?

The woman was concerned, but the arguments won her over. Hermione could see her mind churning over the better care that would be given to the residents of her greenhouse this season, considering how she could relax in Spain with her husband, knowing how well they were tended. In the end, Professor Sprout had relented and agreed to, for Hermione's sake, pretend to have offered the job herself and to keep the true reason between them.

In the week that followed, Hermione did care for the plants with all the energy she had, spending the rest of her days wandering the halls of the castle. More students than usual seemed to have left, and the handful that remained spent most of their time in the library, so she didn't have to worry about keeping up appearances or even taking her sleep-talking potion.

She could even force her thoughts to center on making a plan that would guarantee she would not have to share her shameful secret or ever again return to Jacob, for she no longer had to worry about the lurking ears who might hear the sobs her pain and frustration brought.

Still though, she wasn't completely alone during break, not really. Nearly Headless Nick had become an almost constant companion, as there were no other Gryffindors about and as he was "sick to re-death" of the other ghosts' paltry parties that mocked the seasonal celebrations of the living.

Mostly, he floated along beside her quietly, lost in his own thoughts as she battled through hers. He never chastised her for crying or questioned her reasons, never expected much more than her company, and she took a small comfort in it.

Once, after she had curled up on a chair by the fire and wept relentlessly over the crumpled pieces of parchment that marked her failure to come up with an escape, Nick had told her, "Ghosts don't cry, my lady. Did you know that? Many of us have even lost our understanding of why humans do. Not that you need tell me. No, I know of your loss, and think it no strange thing that you weep so. Mortals pass judgment, but not the men of light and air who once held their form. Death is a great tragedy, though not insurmountable. Why, could I have cried, I would have over my own death, and this thin flap of neck skin that mocks it, for many years, I am sure . . ."

He continued on, ranting about the tragedy of an executioner not sharpening his blade, but Hermione was no longer listening. _Ghosts don't cry. _That was the part that struck her. Ghosts also didn't get themselves raped, nor did the other forms that death might take.

It wasn't that it hadn't occurred to her before, how easy it would be to try an unforgivable spell upon her own breast, how adept, in her self-hatred, she mind find herself at casting it. Such a method would leave no mess for others to unfairly deal with, and she honestly doubted it would hurt much. She already knew the wand movement and words involved, had known them back when she was the other, innocent girl with two healthy, living parents. It was a solution that made sense.

But, she sighed, it was a solution that she couldn't carry out for one simple reason. It would reward the bad while punishing the good. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, Molly, Luna, and others who did not know who she had become, who did not know how much they should all hate her, would grieve, if only for a short time. Meanwhile, she, who deserved the pain she felt, would experience a release from it, at their detriment.

Hermione wouldn't rule the option out, of course; she would rather take any path of fate than feel Jacob's body moving in hers again. But neither would she act on it now and give herself a pleasure she had not earned.


	9. Gifts

Christmas morning came, no more cheerfully than the one that preceded it, and Hermione shuffled her feet onto the cold floor to find a pile of brightly colored presents stacked neatly by her bed.

She'd have to open them, she thought, and send a thank-you owl to the Weasleys and whoever else, lest their feelings be hurt. Now, however, was not the time.

A long shower, a few hours in the greenhouse, a day spent working out new ideas by the fire--she deserved no more than that. Besides, she found as the day progressed that perhaps her words to Professor Sprout had been less of a lie than she had intended.

Every sprig of fresh Mistletoe and every swear-word infused carol screamed down the halls by Peeves reminded her of other Christmases, years ago when she was who she was and not who she had come to be . . .

She remembered the tradition of opening the new toothbrush in her stocking first and having to brush before she could open the rest. She remembered the smell of the pineapple topped ham as her mother drew it from the oven. And her favorite memory, the year her father had dressed up as Santa Claus to personally hand a delighted five-year-old Hermione her very first personal library card. Sure, there had been bigger presents, televisions and bicycles, encyclopedia sets and talking dolls, but the little ones were what she remembered the most about her parents. They had loved her so much, and it tore her apart to remember how much she missed them now.

Guiltily, Hermione reminded herself that there were now other presents awaiting her upstairs, ones she didn't deserve but had no choice but to open. Excusing herself from Nick, she rose from her chair and made the climb up the dormitory steps.

* * *

There was the expected box of chocolate frogs from Ron, wrapped haphazardly in pieces of an _Ogre-Troll-Man_ comic. There was the more professionally wrapped silver frame from Harry that came with a sweet note and that enclosed a photograph of the two people she missed most in the world. How he had managed to procure it, she didn't know, and looking at their stock-still muggle smiles on the paper nearly overwhelmed Hermione with grief. But she was, nevertheless, glad to have the image with her on this day, to be able to look in their faces of love, no matter how much it hurt. It was some time before she could tear her eyes from it.

There was also two sweaters and a large leather-bound text titled _1001 Ancient Runes of the Muggles _from Molly and Arthur, respectively. Even Fred and George had remembered her and sent along a package of designer parchment. To the cover they had taped a photograph of Ron sleeping with his mouth open, the lines of drool almost alive on the paper. Looking at it almost gave Hermione the smallest of real laughs, and she quickly set it aside, for the sensation was too foreign to bear.

Two presents remained and nothing indicated who they might be from, but Hermione chose to open the smaller one first. It was a pair of diamond earrings, and as she opened the note accompanying them, a chill ran down her spine.

My Pet,

I hope you appreciate the grief that I had to go through to get an owl to carry a message from a muggle. I still think it strange that that school of yours forces students to study through holidays, and I am quite saddened to be without you on our first Christmas as father and daughter. Summer, however, is a mere five and a half months away, and I know I will see you again very soon. Remember, when we are apart, how much I love you. I have thought of many new ways to show you this love, and I cannot wait for you to come home so that I may.

As to that, I also have a bit of good news. I have begun to accrue my vacation time and I have decided to take the month of June off from the surgical wing. That way, when you return, we can spend even more quality time together, just you and me, than we did before.

Always your loving father,

Jacob Mattleby

Crumpling the letter into a ball and flinging it as far away from herself as she could, Hermione did not even have time to make it to the lavatory and instead lost the contents of her lunch all over the dormitory floor. Stunned by the intensity of her thoughts and how her newly awakened fear blocked even her tears, she managed only a quick haphazard cleaning spell before she vomited again.

The sun had long sank below her window before Hermione had the strength to force her frame up off the floor and face her fear of the last package.

The wrapping was different, but she had no way of knowing it was not some sinister second-gift from him. Hesitantly, she pulled off the bright red ribbon, and then the sparkly green paper beneath. It was a snow-globe, and the brief note taped to it was not written in his hand.

_So you'll always know you're a part of us, no matter what storms may come. Love, Ginny._

Giving it a shake, Hermione saw a fine dusting of white powder fall upon a house enchanted to resemble the Burrow. Outside it stood tiny figures of the Weasly family holding hands in the yard, between them a boy with black tussled hair and a girl with locks as curly as her own.

Pressing it to her chest, Hermione thoughts swirled between the sweetness of the sentiment and the lingering pain of the other she had been sent. _A part of them_. If only she really was, if only she ever could be again . . .


	10. The Joke

By the time the others had returned to the school, their trunks fatter with presents and their middles rounder from Christmas cakes and cookies, Hermione had given up finding a plan that would work.

She couldn't make herself ugly enough to repel him, for she had already once tried not showering for days to no avail. She could not carry out an Unforgivable curse on someone else, no matter how vile and well-deserved. She couldn't use her wand to protect herself in other ways without being expelled from school, and then, as she could tell no one what she had so desperately needed to protect herself from with the magic, she would simply be his on a permanent basis. She thought about running away but didn't know where she could go, and she had even dared to ask Flitwick (who had never shown much concern and seemed safest) about summer study programs, only to find out that no wizarding schools offered them.

Many other options had sprung to her mind in the preceding weeks, but none offered any more promise. Half the year was over, and she knew the other half could pass just as quickly. She doubted it would be enough time to find the idea she needed, if it even existed, and since she didn't have the guts to kill herself, returning to him was all she had left. Still, she was determined not to do it, even if it meant plying herself with ale at the end-of-term-feast until she found the guts.

Pushing out these thoughts, she squeezed in between Harry and Ron at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall and looked over the breakfast fare. Picking a piece of toast and a boiled egg for her plate, she settled _Magical Maladies: An Advanced Herbologist's Guide_ down beside her and began to flip through the pages, pausing to acknowledge her friends' greetings and catching snippets of the conversation around her.

Today was the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, and although it was assumed to be an easy win, tension was high. Their team had only had a close win with Slytherin, and had lost to Ravenclaw when one of their beaters had rendered Harry temporarily unconscious. In the pouring rain, she had mistaken his head, rising up to look for the snitch, as a bludger, and she had hit it accordingly.

Now, they needed to win by at least eighty points to even their standing for the cup, and red-and-gold-clothed players and fans alike were wearing their nerves on their sleeves.

Hermione, although not the biggest Quidditch enthusiast, felt more relaxed to see that she also was not the lone anxious-looking face at breakfast, at least not this morning. If it could give her that much of a respite all the time, she thought, she'd consider taking the sport up. As it was though, the game and the after party would at least fill up their day, and the latter might even give her time to sneak away unnoticed to her rarely-empty dorm room for a sorely needed nap.

As Hermione finished her toast and placed her napkin over her half-eaten egg, the boys grew more restless and began sharing funny stories, then bawdy jokes, to let off some steam.

She tuned most of them out, and instead tried to focus on the words in her text. Soon however, their laughter grew so loud that even she could not concentrate, and she bookmarked the page with a picture of a Shrivelfig before resigning to find out what was going on.

Ron was groaning and saying that he had heard whatever joke was just told at least a hundred times, to the frustrated assent of the others gathered.

Seamus, who was red in the face and must have been the teller, countered with, "Oy, but I bet you haven't 'eard this one. Me mum'd kill me if she knew I was repeatin' it. S'a limerick I read in one of me dad's books."

"Right then," Harry laughed, "Out with it!" And to punctuate the point, Dean Thomas gave his friend a hard thump on the back.

"Right then, right," Seamus muttered, taking a swig of his pumpkin juice and loudly clearly his throat:

"_There once was a man with the Clap,_

_whose neighbor had quite a big trap._

_She told the whole town,_

_so he tied the bitch down,_

_and he raped her, during her nap."_

As he finished and the words sunk in, Hermione could no longer hear the sounds around her as clearly. She could not tell which boys were laughing so hard that they spit out bits of their food and which boys were simply staring with their mouths open, stunned at his poor taste.

Hermione could only sit there, staring at her plate, forcing herself to shut off molecule by molecule, to steel her breathing and not react. It became a mantra in her head, as she glared at her napkin with enough intensity to burn a hole clear through it. _Don't react; react and they'll know. Don't react; react and they'll know. _

Seconds may have passed or minutes, before all had recovered and other jokes were started. It gave Hermione the segue she needed, to stand as calmly as she could and, with painstaking care to control the rising bile in her throat, tell Ron and Harry that she had just remembered a mistake she had made in her Ancient Runes homework.

With as few additional words as possible, she assured them that, yes, she would quickly come down to the pitch to watch the game, and no, it couldn't wait because she might forget. Then, she carefully made her way out of the Great Hall, sprinting to the girls' lavatory on the first floor as soon as she was sure she was out of view of the others.

Flushing what would have been her breakfast had she been able to digest it, Hermione forced herself over to the sinks where she could splash cold water on her face. She could no longer hear any sounds from the halls and assumed that the rest of the school had begun making their way out to find good seats for the match.

Assured she would not now be bothered, she allowed herself to slide down the cold stone wall onto the matching floor. There, she brought her knees up to her chest, resting her head in them, barely even noticing the tears that had begun once more.

_Was this to be her life?, _she wondered. Hiding from her friends and crying in public toilets? Maybe she was wrong. Maybe ale wasn't what she needed to give her the guts, only Seamus' words. Not that she was angry with him. How could he have known that her life had been reduced to nothing more than a punchline?

Still, it was only that, and it was time she gave more serious consideration to its ending.


	11. Wellspring

Hermione's tears slowed and a new determination overtook her, the kind brought on perhaps only by the accepted knowledge of one's imminent and desired demise.

All she had to do now was scribble out what lies she could to assuage her friends' grief and then decide upon the best time and place to work the spell. It shouldn't be in the dormitory, where one of the other girls would have to find her, and definitely not on the grounds, where the task might fall to Hagrid. Maybe she should try walking to . . .

Lost in her thoughts, Hermione almost missed hearing the creak of the door and it took her a few seconds to pull herself together and register who was standing there.

"Herm?," Ginny said, so gently that Hermione nearly didn't hear.

When Hermione didn't answer or even react to her presence, Ron's sister sank down beside her on the stone floor, and placed one of her hands over Hermione's own. "Herm, I . . ."

"Ginny," Hermione interrupted, finally finding her voice and with it her ability to lie and divert, "I, uh, aren't you playing in the match?"

Not looking at her, but still holding her hand, Ginny replied distractedly, "I asked Arnie Chatian to go on in my place. He's that seventh year who was second at the tryouts. I had something more important to do."

When Hermione didn't answer or ask what this more important thing was, Ginny, still looking at the floor, said barely above a whisper and in a choked tone Hermione had not heard from the younger girl before, "Tell me."

A minute went by and still no answer, so she repeated it, this time shifting her gaze to Hermione. There were tears in her eyes, "Herm, _tell me_."

Hermione, not able to bear a gaze so full of concern, turned her own eyes away and knew she had to answer. "I . . . It's been so hard since my parents died. I didn't want any of you to know how, how upset I was about it, losing them, and Crookshanks, my whole family . . . I, I know you said I could talk to you, but I couldn't before, because, well, umm . . . it's just so hard to talk about them. I'm sorry. Sometimes I just need . . . need to cry, but once it's out . . . I'm okay now."

"No," Ginny said, the same edge to her voice, her eyes now cast down again.

"No?," Hermione parroted, caught off guard by the last reaction she expected, one that really didn't even make sense.

"No," Ginny repeated, biting her lip and then releasing it, "Not about your parents. I mean, I know how much that upset you, and I know how much it still does. But you know that wasn't what I meant. You _know _that's not always what's bothering you. Hermione, please, _please _. . . just tell me_._"

"I . . . I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione replied quickly, trying to still her rising voice. "Of course it's just my parents. You can't imagine how hard it is, knowing I'll never see them again! It's only ever been that . . . really, Ginny. I don't know what else you're imagining, but I promise you . . ."

"Don't!" Ginny said, standing and surprising both Hermione and herself with the intensity of the anger in her voice.

"You know, Hermione," she started again, barely restraining the frustration in her voice as she paced back and forth between the sinks, "I used to believe that. I did. But it's not true, is it, Hermione? It's not true at all . . ."

When Hermione, shocked into silence and unsure how to react, again didn't respond, Ginny missed barely a beat before continuing her pacing and her words, "I believed you all year. 'I'm okay, it's just my parents.' I believed you even after I started noticing how deep your pain ran, how long you took in the shower, how you never seemed to sleep. I believed you when you didn't come to the Burrow for Christmas, and . . . until today, it didn't make sense. I believed you, but before, it just didn't make sense."

Softening her tone to match the stream of tears now running down her face, Ginny took a shaking breath, sat down once more next to Hermione, and continued gently, "And, now, now I think it does. Hermione . . . Do you remember that night before school started, when you were sleeping in my room and had a nightmare? . . . I remember. I remember what you said to me, when I woke you up. 'Don't hurt me. Don't touch me.' . . . I thought your explanation seemed a bit off, but we were both tired, and I must have been a complete git to never put it together, not until today, not until Seamus . . . "

Hermione stiffened when the name left Ginny's lips, suddenly reeling in the fear of where it might be headed. "Ginny, don't. Please. I can't. Don't," she mumbled, new tears overtaking her.

"Herm," Ginny said, her voice steadier and both her hands now clasping the other girl's. "Herm, I was watching you when Seamus told that awful joke. I saw the look in your eyes, and when I did . . . when I did, I finally understood what your words that night meant. 'Don't hurt me. Don't touch me.' Who, Hermione? Who did hurt you? Who _did _touch you?"

The words had left her mouth before Hermione even realized her tongue had formed them, had realized that her eyes were once again meeting Ginny's, "Jacob, my . . . my biological father, the one I live with now, it was Jacob . . ."

With a heart-rending sigh, Ginny closed her eyes and nodded once, before letting go of Hermione's hand. Then, Hermione felt the other girl's arm wrap tightly around her back, and felt both anguish and surprise with the realization that she was still there, still touching her unrepulsed despite the words that she had just spoken.

Overwhelmed and broken, Hermione buried her head against Ginny's chest, soaking the front of her Quidditch robes with her sobs. Ginny only pulled her closer, lightly running her fingers through Hermione's hair. Then, the younger girl pressed her own head gently against the older's, and whispered the truth that needed to be spoken, "he raped you, didn't he, Hermione?"

And Hermione, exhausted and still shocked that someone knew, could only nod and continue her crying.


	12. If He Comes for You

For a long time, the two girls had simply sat there, one holding the other and whispering words of comfort even after her sobs had died down.

Then, slow and haltingly, Hermione had begun sharing almost all that had transpired that year-her meeting with the social worker, her first impression of Jacob, then how he had hurt her and how often. She told Ginny about the threats he had made, the nightmares she had suffered, and the conversation she had overheard between Romilda and Lavender. She explained why she had been absent at Christmas, quoted what she could remember of his note to her that day, and revealed her failed attempts at finding an escape.

Through it all, Ginny listened, stroking her hair and squeezing her hand when the words became too difficult to utter. Finally, Hermione finished, choking out the decision she had made and all the reasons she blamed and hated herself, all the reasons she had turned to death and had chosen to embrace it.

Only then, swallowing hard and steeling her resolution to say everything she had forced herself to hold in, did Ginny speak, "Hermione, I can't imagine surviving something so . . . so horrible. I'm sure it would have broken most people, and I admire your courage . . .

"I wasn't brave, I . . ." Hermione interrupted, but Ginny merely held her tighter, and countered, "Please, just let me finish."

"Hermione, I want you to know that I believe everything you told me, and that if he was here right now, I'd . . . I'd curse his off his you-know-what, or worse . . . I'm angry, Hermione. I was angry before you had admitted the truth, and I'm even angrier now. But NOT at you," she added, feeling Hermione's body tense beneath her words.

"_Never_ at you. At him, for what he did to you. It wasn't your fault, Hermione. none of it. I know that might be hard for you to believe, that you think it was your choice. But did you ever ask yourself what other choice you had? To be killed, or injured horribly and then still . . . raped anyway? To be forbidden from Hogwarts, and left with him all year round? And, yes, you could have told someone, should have told someone. But I understand why you didn't, and I don't blame you. Hermione, what he did to you . . . I can't, nothing, _nothing _in the world could have made you deserve that, _nothing _you did could have ever justified it. You're a good person, Hermione. You're a good person, and I'm sorry you had to go through so much, that none of us saw it, that none of us protected you . . . I . . ."

But Ginny couldn't continue, her own tears now falling so quickly that they took her voice, and, for a while, everything else she wanted to say away.

The match and was long ended and the after-party in full swing (for they later learned that Gryffindor had won by two hundreds points) when Hermione and Ginny rose from the floor to wash their faces and exchange one last embrace.

"Herm," Ginny whispered, giving her eyes one last pat with a paper towel, "this may not be the right time . . . but there are other things we need to talk about."

"Like?"

"Like, for starters, I'd rather you not be alone right now."

"Ginny, I'm not going to . . . I mean I thought about it, and I can't pretend that it isn't tempting, but I promise I won't . . ."

"Listen, I trust you. It's just that . . . anything could happen, and I want to know you're safe. Not just from the him out there," Ginny said, pointing vaguely East, "but also from the him in _here_," she finished, touching her finger gently to Hermione's head.

As Ginny proposed her plan, Hermione still felt a lingering sense of shame that the other girl knew, that she had told her so much. Nonetheless, it felt good to have someone else, someone who didn't want to hurt her, taking charge and coming up with the ideas.

At first, the younger girl had tried to hint at the idea of getting adult help, but Hermione could imagine nothing worse than someone else knowing and refused to hear another word on it. Instead, it was agreed that she would go to the Hospital Wing, with the complaint of needing a potion for an upset stomach. After all, that ailment had never been very far off the mark lately.

Meanwhile Ginny would go on ahead to the common room, find Harry and Ron and use this illness as an excuse for both of their absences, vaguely hinting at "complicated women's troubles." Their hope was that the boys would be too embarrassed to probe her further and not worried enough to rush to the Hospital Wing.

Next, Ginny would find Hermione's roommates, Lavender and Pavrati, and ask them to switch rooms with her and Vicky Frobisher, an odd but harmless fifth year who spent most of her time in the Owlrey.

Romilda, Ginny's third roommate, had never quite seen eye to eye with Vicky, who was prone to coming in late covered in feathers, but she did seem to get on with Hermione's roomies, who admired the fourth-year girl, in turn, for her father's connections in the wizarding fashion world. For these reasons, she hoped, the switch would be taken as a genius idea by all involved parties. And if McGonagall, who had arranged the trios initially, found out and questioned it, well, Ginny would deal with that later and make up some excuse, such as needing Hermione's tutoring in Potions, the only subject she loathed.

Once the rooms had been secured and the trunks and bedding had been relocated, Ginny would join Hermione, who was supposed to wait for her in the hospital wing (or right outside if Madam Pomfrey grew suspicious).

By that time, they hoped, the party would have died down enough that Hermione, feigning her illness, could be shepherded up to bed quickly and mostly unnoticed, or at the very least only minimally pestered by the others who cared.

And for the first time in a long time, and probably, Hermione thought, because it was the plan of someone less useless than herself, things worked out well, perhaps better even than they had intended. Madam Pomfrey gave Hermione a bit of chocolate and some thick, hot potion that really did calm her stomach. The matron had then insisted that she be escorted back to her room by another student, giving her an unquestioned excuse for waiting safely there for Ginny.

When the younger girl arrived, and the matron was out of earshot, she recounted how three of the girls had squealed with delight at her proposal, running immediately upstairs to relocate their possessions. Vicky had merely given an indifferent but assenting shrug before gathering some books and returning to read bed-time stories to the castle's feathered friends.

Ron and Harry, of course, had been more concerned than they had hoped, but agreeable to letting Ginny handle a matter they assumed to revolve around mysterious-monthly-visitors. The only catch was that they insisted on seeing Hermione first thing next morning, and they made Ginny vow to never miss another match. For although Arnie had played his part well and contributed nearly fifty points to their win, they found his crass flaunting of his muscles to the girls on the other team, something he felt the need to do between every point no matter who had scored it, more than a bit annoying.

Still, everything so far had been a success, and it was made even better by the fact that Ginny was able to lead Hermione up to their new room without anyone stopping them for a chat, without the press of celebrating bodies stirring her into a panic.

Once there, Hermione leaned exhausted against her familiar head board, and reached for the bottle under her bed in which she kept her potion.

"Don't," Ginny pleaded, placing her own hand upon the bottle to stall its ascent to Hermione's lips. "Vicky rarely sleeps in the dorms anyway."

"But it will keep me from . . ." Hermione started to protest, before Ginny interrupted.

"Exactly. And that isn't what I want. If you have a nightmare, I'll wake you. If he comes for you in your dreams, I'll be here to drive him away."

Unsettled about the idea, but nonetheless finding it slightly comforting, Hermione agreed and let go of the bottle in her hand.


	13. Hagrid's

That night he did come for her, more than once, and true to her word, Ginny was there each time, waking her gently and then holding her until exhaustion claimed her once more.

Sunlight finally filtering through the window again, Hermione rose from a deeper final few hours of sleep than she had experienced in some time. At first, she didn't recall the events of the previous night, as her just woken mind was still tumbling into wakefulness. But then she opened her eyes to stretch, and saw Ginny's form, curled up beside her and fast asleep.

In that moment, it all came rushing back--the limerick, the bathroom, the Medical Wing, Ginny's arms around her as she struggled to break free of her most recent dream . . . _Someone knew. _Yet, as Hermione allowed that thought to overtake her, it was no longer seemed quite as bad as she once had felt it must be.

She remained firm in her belief that anyone else would have hated and blamed her for the knowledge Hermione had shared, but for some strange reason that she couldn't comprehend, she honestly felt that Ginny didn't. It was as if a great weight, one that had compressed her whole body more and more each day for months, had well . . . not been lifted, but had started to lift, to lighten all the same. Ginny knew, knew everything, and Ginny did not hate her.

As she dressed quietly, Hermione decided that she would let the younger girl sleep. There were no classes on Sunday, and breakfast would be half over by now anyway. She knew what exhaustion felt like, knew that sensation by now perhaps better than any other, and she would not have someone else unduly suffer more of it because of her. She couldn't imagine how much sleep the young red-head must have lost already, watching over her most of the night.

Pulling the covers over her friend as gently as she could, Hermione left the dorm, to fulfill the promise Ginny had given last night and seek out Ron and Harry on her own. She didn't have to look far, for the minute she entered the common room, two figures rose from chairs by the fire and rushed over to her.

"Feeling . . . erm, better?" Ron asked sheepishly as Harry gave her a quizzical look and lightly touched her shoulder.

"Yes," she said simply, shocked by her immediate realization that the utterance had been true. She wasn't feeling "good;" she wasn't feeling "happy," or even "okay," but "better," however meagerly, was an accurate description.

As they plied her with pieces of toast they had pilfered earlier from the Great Hall, they attempted to convince her to leave off homework for one morning and join them in accepting an invitation to visit Hagrid. Surprised that she agreed so easily (instead of panicking in her attempt to find an excuse for refusal) Hermione asked only that she be given a minute to fetch something from her dorm.

Once upstairs, Hermione penned Ginny a quick note and left it tucked sticking out from her pillow where she couldn't miss it.

_Ginny~ Off to visit Hagrid with Harry and Ron. Didn't want to wake you or make you worry. Join us later if you'd like. And thanks, Ginny, thanks for everything. ~Hermione_

* * *

Ginny hadn't joined them though, not once in the two hours they spent sitting around Hagrid's scarred Bolivian-Rosewood table, drinking strong tea and politely avoiding the teeth-breaking orange-spice cakes he offered them.

As they visited, Hermione still found herself missing the feel of a book on the lap of her robes, still found herself tempted to recite her notes in her mind rather than listen. But she did listen, at least here and there, to the friendly banter around her, only occasionally finding it tuned out and overtaken by worries of what might happen now that her secret was less of one.

"But yer not one fer such si'lance, ar ya 'Ermin'ee?," Hagrid laughed, winking at her from above the cake crumbs in his bushy beard.

"S-sorry," she squeaked out, looking from one friend to the other and trying to force a smile, "not usually, no."

"Ain't been feelin' well, the lads here tol' me, maybe this'll help a bit, eh?" he said, pouring more tea into her cup.

"Thanks, Hagrid," Hermione replied, trying to ignore the renewed concern on Ron and Harry's faces, "I'm much better now though, really. I just like listening . . . Tell me more about these, what are they?

"Bristle-stallions, an' right rare they are," Hagrid continued, telling his young companions about the whole herd of thumb-sized, multi-hued horses he had discovered encamped in the far corner of his garden the morning before. As he regaled them with tales of how intelligent and thrifty these minute beasts were, Hermione found it easier and easier to hear his words and block out her own thoughts.

"Can they really breed that quickly then?," she found herself asking at one point, surprised that she had joined the conversation without prompting.

"Sure kin," Hagrid continued, widening his smile at her sudden interest and proclaiming legends of how, not even two hundred years before, the whole forest floor used to be littered with the blessed little things, before the hawks found out how good they tasted.

The trio waved back to Hagrid once more from the garden path, and swung their bags of leftover cake-pieces over their shoulders to lug them to a more discreet discarding place. While they walked, Hermione found herself laughing with Ron and Harry over Hagrid's enthusiastic repopulation plans for the newly found species.

The mirth was still half-faked, and it did not quite unfreeze the pain even now stiffening around her heart. But as Ron mimicked little horses crawling all over Fang with his fingers, Hermione found it was closer to the real thing than any of her feigned happiness had been before, since . . . since her parents, and Jacob.

And, as they made their way back to the castle, each of the boys with an arm draped low on her shoulders, Hermione found her mind clearer than it had been in months. Suddenly, she was able to notice the breeze, and was amazed by how light it felt on her skin. She could heard the laughter of her best friends ringing in her ears, and her heart panged with her realization of how much she had missed that sound, and being a part of it.

_Was this all because she'd told Ginny? _she wondered. Or was it still relief that she had finally found the strength to end her life if ever it was called for? Granted, the latter seemed less and less a tempting idea as the day wore on, for reasons she had not yet quite worked out. But surely, some of her lifted burden must still be springing from its availability as an option . . .

_No, _she thought. It might be a bit of that, but not mostly. She wasn't happy, wasn't at peace, might never feel either or those two things again, and yet, she did feel something similar that once been a part of her, something she had lost without knowing when or how.

Companionship. That was it. For though she had often not been alone since school started, the realization that Ginny was in her room willing to comfort her if she needed it, that Ron and Harry were still spending time with her no matter how depressing she'd become . . . she had always felt alone even in their presence, and now, her thoughts drifting back to the red-head and her words of comfort, she knew she wasn't.

It didn't fix things, but for the moment, and maybe only for the moment, it made them the slightest bit more bearable.


	14. Unrelenting

"I'd gladly take care of him myself if you wanted, and it'll be worth any time they give me in Azkaban," Ginny muttered, throwing her pillow down on her mattress in frustration, "but really, Herm, someone should know. Someone who could help, and . . ."

"No!," Hermione interrupted with exasperation. They had been over this again and again during the last week, and she hated to renew the spat, to brush off what she was sure were Ginny's best intentions. The other girl just didn't understand, didn't see how unique she was in not blaming Hermione, and thus far, all of Hermione's arguments had failed to convey that point.

Releasing a loud huff of breath, Ginny sat back down, and tried again more gently, "What about Dumbledore? He's so powerful, and of course he'd believe you, Herm . . ."

"I barely even know him! Maybe if it was a problem of Harry's or . . . and besides, Ginny, he's, well, he's a he and I couldn't bear to . . ."

"Okay, okay," the younger girl argued, accepting the point, "a woman then, McGonagall or Madam Pomfrey . . ."

"No, none of the teachers or the staff. I've worked too hard, too hard to hide it. I won't have them . . . I can't sit in class and know that they're looking at me, hating me or pitying me, or, or worse."

"Herm, we've been over this. No one in their right minds would _hate _you or anything like that. What do I have to say to convince you that none of this was your fault, that you only did what you had to, to survive?"

Hermione gave her the old familiar look that said it-means-the-world-to-me-that-you-feel-that-way-but-it-doesn't-make-you-any-less-wrong, and she tried to change the subject by asking Ginny if she had finished her Transfiguration homework yet and if she needed any help with it before Quidditch practice.

Determined not to give up so readily this time, Ginny replied, "No, and I'm not going to do my bloody homework until we at least talk this out! What about the muggle authorities, Herm? They have to protect you, and you won't have to see the lot of them again once you've told and all . . ."

"We have talked it out! How many times?," Hermione argued, her frustration growing, "We've been over and over this. There'd have to be a trial and then it'd just be my word against his, and God knows what he'd do to me if he won. Even if he didn't, I'd just end up in some muggle foster home where he could easily find me once he'd offered up bail."

Continuing, she added, "And don't say what I know you're going to. I don't care how confidential the Ministry of Magic would keep it. I don't care how nice Tonks has always been to me, or how easily one of the nurses at St. Mungo's could make an anonymous tip. We've been through this, Ginny, and nothing you say is going to make me yield."

"Okay then," Ginny offered back quietly, "what about someone I haven't suggested?"

"Honestly, Ginny, who haven't you . . ."

"My mum."

The words stopped Hermione. Yes, she'd have to refuse the suggestion of Molly Weasley like all the others, but she hadn't considered that Ginny would suggest that, and she didn't want to upset the person she needed the most by putting any unmeant insult to a member of her family.

Taking Hermione's pause as a possible sign that she was considering the option favorably, Ginny pushed on to strengthen her argument while she had a chance, "I get that she could never replace what you lost, Herm, I do. But she does love you, and nothing could change that. Who do you think taught me that such a thing is never the victim's fault? I think she'd had a friend once, who'd been through something similar, even though she doesn't talk about it. It doesn't matter, what matters is that she'd do anything to protect you, even if it meant barricading you in the Burrow for the next dozen years . . ."

Sighing and shaking her head, Hermione offered her paltry attempt at finding the words she needed, "It's not that it's not a good idea, it's just that I don't think . . ."

"Okay then," Ginny spoke over her, hoping to stop her before she could build more strength for her refusal, "It's not a bad idea. I'm not asking you to say 'yes,' Hermione. Not right now. Just think about it; take your time. I'll write to mum and tell her that there's something important I need to speak with her about, won't even mention your name if you don't want me to. I'll ask her to get Dumbledore's permission to visit the school next Saturday afternoon. And if, by then, you've really thought about and you still don't want to, I'll make up some boy-drama and send her on her way."

Exhausted by the conversation and aware that Ginny would just try to come up with another idea the second this one was refused, Hermione nodded and agreed to think on it. At least she would have nearly a whole week to put together an airtight argument for maintaining her silence. At least that week would be a more peaceful one . . .

* * *

However, as they week progressed and Saturday drew closer at an astonishing speed, Hermione did not find herself at peace.

Yes, she had had her first and only nightmare-free night on Tuesday, had even enjoyed joining Ginny, Harry, and Ron when they snuck up on Zacharias Smith, plastering him with simultaneous nose-hair-grow spells for tripping Luna in the front hall.

Yes, she had found herself doing only twice the strictly required amount of homework, and she had even begun joining her classmates in the Great Hall for three solid meals a day.

Never, however, did the nagging need to save herself from Molly knowing leave her mind. Yet she could not come up with a single reason for refusing, at least not one for which she knew Ginny didn't have a better prepared counter-argument.

Resigned, she pushed around the fruit on her plate Saturday morning and met the younger girl's hopeful eyes across the table. Setting down her napkin, she scratched her ear to give Ginny the practiced signal that they needed to talk. Then she pushed back her chair and made an excuse to Harry and Ron about needing to look up something in the library.

Only an hour was left before Molly's scheduled arrival, and Hermione knew now that she had put this off too long. She'd meet Ginny back in their dormitory, and, reason or no reason, she would simply have to refuse.


	15. Early Arrival

Walking up the stairs to her room, with the knowledge that Ginny would soon follow, Hermione tried to think of whatever last-ditch argument she could. It was useless, however, and Ginny would just have to accept her decision, with or without a valid reason to back it up.

Sighing, she pushed open the door and then froze when she heard a voice address her.

"Hermione? Is that you? Oh, it's so good to see you dear! But wherever has Ginny gone? Dumbledore said he'd fetch her from the Great Hall and send her up," Molly rattled off while wrapping Hermione in a smothering hug.

"She'll be up soon, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione mumbled into the older woman's shoulder before being released and feeling her breath return to her.

"And look how thin you've gotten," was the reply, as Molly held Hermione at arms' length and looked her up and down. "You and those boys! You'd swear they didn't even have food at this school . . . But Dumbledore tells me otherwise. How are you, dear?"

"Good, great actually," Hermione replied with a fake smile, relieved to see Ginny's head poking around the door frame.

"Mum?" she said, giving her a quizzical look before rushing forward to hug her, "You weren't supposed to be here for another hour!"

As Molly began blathering about mothers not being expected to keep everyone's time tables, Ginny held onto her in as long of a hug as possible, watching Hermione step behind them. Then, when their eyes met again, Ginny looked over her mother's shoulder, wrinkled her face in an expression of innocent apology, and silently mouthed, "Well?"

Defeated, Hermione could only manage to respond back, with the help of mouthed words and gestures, "You tell her. I can't." Then, making a hurried apology to them both and muttering something about "giving them privacy," she quickly fled the room.

Outside, Hermione slumped against the oaken door of her suite and took a deep ragged breath in an attempt to hold off more tears. Maybe it wasn't too late. She could go back in, stop it. But no, she knew that there was no turning back now, not when she'd already given her permission, not when Ginny was so determined.

_Why? _she wondered. Why had Mrs. Weasley had to come before she could speak to Ginny privately? Why hadn't Hermione just shook her head "No," ignored anything else Ginny might have done, and left it at that? Biting her lip and pressing her palms to her eyes, she shook her head in agony, and would have beat it against the door if doing so wouldn't be a sure give-away of her position.

Trying to fight back the queasiness that kept rising in waves with her intense anxiety, she forced herself to press one ear against the door. Maybe, she tried to convince herself, Ginny would understand that she hadn't really meant it, that she didn't really want this. Maybe Ginny would make something else up or only tell her mom part of the truth. Either way, she had to know, so she braced herself, and strained to hear their voices:

"Ginny, dear, what is it? What is so bad that you needed me to come down here but could not give a hint of it in your letter?," Hermione heard Molly say, her voice rising almost to a shrill. 'You've had me and your father almost sick with worry the whole week, and if Arthur hadn't convinced me . . . well, I would have insisted that Dumbledore allow me access to Hogwart's immediately . . . and, and"

"Mum, stop, really, I can't breathe," Ginny huffed, and Hermione, with no hint of amusement, imagined her friend being hugged, half to death, by her mother.

"Oh, oh my, sorry dear. _But really_. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No, mum, it's not me . . . it's"

"Well, out with it, Ginny, honestly, you're scaring me!"

"It Hermione, mum."

"Hermione? _Hermione? _Oh, oh, I see. I was rather worried when she didn't come home, to the Burrow I mean, at Christmas. Is it about her parents? The poor dear. But where has she gone? I suppose we should go find her."

"No, mum," Ginny said, her voice recovered and firm, "She wanted . . . she wanted _me _to tell you."

"Tell me what? Of course this whole thing must still be so hard on her. But really it will help her to talk about it, about them. We'll just go get her and . . ."

"Mum," Ginny interrupted again, and Hermione tensed as she heard the familiar exasperation in her voice, "You're not listening. It's nothing to do with her parents, and she wants me to tell you. Please, mum. This isn't easy."

"Well, okay, whatever it is, it can't be worse than that really. Has she had a row with Ron and Harry then? Honestly, they're her best friends, and I don't know why else they wouldn't be here for this . . ."

"They haven't had a row, mum, and Harry and Ron don't know. Would you just listen, please?"

"Ginny, the look on your face, I've never seen you . . . are you crying? Oh, dear. Okay, I'm sorry. Please, go on . . ."

"It's that Jacob, mom, the man they sent her to live with. He's been hurting her, and . . ."

"Jacob? Her father?"

"DON'T call him that," Ginny interrupted, and Hermione could hear the anger rising above her tears. "Don't ever call him that."

"I'm sorry, I . . . but hurting her how? Do you mean that he's been neglecting her, saying mean things? He hasn't hit her, has he? Because if your father found out, he'd . . ."

"No, mum. Well, yes, but it's worse than that. He's been . . . he's been raping her, ever since she . . ."

But Hermione did not listen to the rest of what went on between the female Weasleys. Sick at hearing the words leave Ginny's mouth, at knowing that the secret of her terror and shame and hideousness was now out of her control and on display, she pushed herself as quickly and quietly as she could away from the door and fled down the stairs.


	16. From Here

After loosing what little breakfast she had eaten in the lavatory, Hermione forced herself to return to the common room and wait. Thankfully, it was a sunny day outside, and Harry and Ron both had to do a detention for passing around a rather unbecoming drawing of Snape in Potions. The room was nearly empty except for a few scrawny first-years playing Wizard's Chess.

As she sat, then rose and paced, then sat again, Hermione tried to battle the many thoughts simultaneously screaming for attention in her head. She had kept an almost constant watch on the set of enchanted hourglasses placed above the mantel piece, and what they told her did not bode well. It has been ten minutes, then fifteen, then half of an hour, since Ginny had revealed her secret, and still the Weasley women remained upstairs.

_What on earth_, she wondered, _could they still be talking about_? The possibilities were many, and each one Hermione thought of was more frightening than the one that preceded it. Did Mrs. Weasley not believe what Ginny had told her? Did she believe and now hate Hermione, think her disgusting and vile? Was she lecturing Ginny at this very moment about how she wanted her and Ron to have no further contact with this whorish influence? Would she tell Jacob about the accusations that Hermione had made? Would she tell Arthur, or Harry, or Ron?

Hermione couldn't bear not knowing, but neither could she make herself climb the stairs to uncover the truth. Finally, as she sat rocking back and forth in her chair, certain that she could survive her fears little longer, she heard footsteps descending from above and watched as Mrs. Weasley's plump form entered the room.

The woman's face looked red and blotchy, as if she had been crying, or yelling, or both. With trepidation, Hermione watched her first glance at the chess-playing students, and then look over at Hermione, beckoning her with a hand and in a strangled, restrained voice, telling her, "Please, come upstairs."

The older woman turned, and Hermione, not knowing what else do, followed. As she entered the room, the first thing she noticed was Ginny's absence, and the second, Mrs. Weasly's measured breathing and look of anger.

"Hermione, I don't know what to say . . ."

But Hermione wouldn't hear it, didn't have the strength to let her continue. "Please, Mrs. Weasley," she sobbed, falling to her knees and shaking. "Please, I understand if you don't believe me; I understand if you never want me to see Ron or Ginny again, and if you hate me. Just please don't tell anyone . . . I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, and I'll do anything you want if you'll just forget about this and . . ."

As she begged, Hermione didn't see Mrs. Weasley rising from the bed with tears in her own eyes and joining her on the floor, not until the woman had pulled her into her lap and wrapped her in an embrace so tight that her words were cut off.

"There, there, now. Hush, child, hush," Molly cooed, as she rocked her back and forth. "Of course I believe you, of course I do. And why ever wouldn't I want you to see Ron and Ginny? Why, if I had my way you would have been living with us at the Burrow all along, where you belong. It's okay, love, let it out. I won't ever let him hurt you again."

As Mrs. Weasley continued to rock Hermione, she was struck by how much the warmth of the woman's embrace reminded her of her own mother, who had often held her the same way when she was little and had had a bad dream about the boogeyman. She was now too exhausted to think, too exhausted to make sense of the love she hadn't expected and yet was being shown all the same. She just wanted to stay there forever, to be a child again, to let a parent take control and assure her that her monsters weren't real and couldn't hurt her.

* * *

Dinner time came and went and Hermione lay curled up on Ginny's bed, one of Mrs. Weasly's hands still stroking her hair. Ginny, having returned from her tasks of telling Dumbledore that her mother would be staying the night and telling her father that she would be in touch with him soon, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the four-poster, looking as worn-out as all of them felt.

Thus far, she had refused to allow Molly to tell anyone else the whole truth, but had conceded to Arthur being informed of the physical abuse Jacob had wrought on her, as a way of explanation for the events that might follow. Now, she was listening to the motherly woman explain how Tonks had several connections at the Ministry in the department of Young Witch and Wizard Protection:

"I know it must be so hard, Hermione, but you've been so brave telling us already, and really, they're our best bet. Wizarding custodial law is different from that of muggles, and if they deem your home unfit, which they will--they have ways of uncovering the truth--then you will be able to immediately petition to be placed in the care of Arthur and myself until you've finished Hogwarts. Of course, under Gwendyll's Law, your identity will be kept confidential from the public, and honestly, no matter what has to be done, there is no way that I am ever, ever letting you return to that, that . . . what did you call him, Ginny dear?"

"Son of a Blast-Ended Skrewt?"

"Yes, that," Molly finished, "I simply won't consider it!"

When all was said and done, Hermione, much to her own surprise, gave her hesitant, but full, agreement to all of the things Ginny's mother asked of her.

She would allow Mrs. Weasly to go to their headmaster and head of house and request that Ginny and Hermione be excused from classes for the next few days, in the presence of Harry and Ron, so that they understood.

Dumbledore, McGonagall, and the boys would only be told what parts of the truth Molly had been cleared to share with Arthur. They would know she had been mistreated and beaten by the man with whom she had spent the summer, that this was the reason for her recent depression and anxiety, and that there was a chance she would be living at the Burrow from now on. Harry and Ron would also be forbidden to seek her out to discuss this until Wednesday at the earliest, as Hermione was tired and much needed to be done, without distractions, to ensure her safety. She could tell them the rest when, and if, she was ever ready.

The next point wouldn't be conceded, and Hermione was practically forced to agree to allow Mrs. Weasly to take her to St. Mungo's first thing in the morning. Pushing the images of what the examination might be like from her head, Hermione understood the older woman's concerns and how necessary this dreaded task was, for her own health.

At the hospital, the three of them would meet up with Tonks, who would be informed of the situation by Mrs. Weasley shortly, and who would make sure that Hermione was taken through the necessary steps of reporting her abuse and giving her statement. He would be questioned by a representative of the DYWWP, and, finally, when a decision upon the case had been made, Arthur and Molly would petition the department for guardianship.

Anxious of all that was to come and relieved for all that was behind her, Hermione stayed curled there the rest of the night, allowing Ginny to join her on the bed when Molly had left to set things in motion. As the younger girl wrapped her arms securely around her, she whispered promises to Hermione that, even if she and her mother had to sleep in shifts, she would not be left alone to face a single nightmare, not if they could help it.

Hermione, drifting off to sleep as conflicting thoughts circled in her overloaded brain, discovered that she longer knew who she was, now that she was beginning to question her self-hatred. She also no longer knew what she wanted, now that so many new things were beyond her control. All Hermione did know was this: _Ginny still loved her. Molly still loved her. No one yet blamed her. _And maybe, just maybe, it _might _all be okay.


	17. St Mungo's

The next morning, as she sat in the brightly lit waiting room of St. Mungo's, Hermione felt an unanticipated pain overtake her. She had expected to be a bit paranoid sitting there, to feel like every patient's eyes were on her. She had expected to be a bit embarrassed even, to wonder how many of those shuffling around her, sorting through old copies of _Witch Weekly_, suspected why a perfectly healthy looking young witch was being seen here during the school term.

What she hadn't expected was the smell, the combination of cleaning supplies, tile floors, antiseptic, freshly painted walls . . . it reminded her too much of her parents, too much of Granger Dentistry and the hours she spent there before she got her Hogwarts letter, playing on the floor with puzzles, sitting in her father's lap making up stories while her mother gave him the teasing, dirty looks that meant it was time to help her with the patients. She hadn't expected a wizard medical office to smell anything like a muggle one, certainly the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts didn't.

_But at least they're not here for this_, Herimione thought, _here to see what had happened to their daughter, to know that pain_. Secretly though, she wished, if for only a second, that it was her mother, and not Mrs. Weasley, whispering through the charmed glass to the woman in white robes on the other side. Secretly, she yearned for her father, Reginald, to be sitting beside her, to see his face, even if it wore the same anxious mask of concern now plastered on Ginny's. But they couldn't be, she reminded herself, and she was happy at least to have two others who loved her, unconditionally, supporting her.

A short, plump nurse who could not have been more than twenty and who had curly bright green hair falling down past her shoulders, stepped out to exchange a few brief words that she couldn't hear with Mrs. Weasley, before turning to approach her.

"You must be Hermione. I'm Tossi, and I'll be taking you back," the nurse said with a simple but knowingly empathetic smile.

Ginny stood when Hermione did, and Tossi gave her a curious look. "And you must be Mrs. Weasley's daughter. She mentioned you were here as well. If you'd like, your mum'll be filling out some more paperwork in the kin-room, and I think there are some better magazines back there. Maybe even the new _Weird Witchettes._"

"I stay with _her_," Ginny replied firmly, squaring her shoulders so that she looked a bit older and more imposing. "That is, I mean, if you want me to, Herm." she finished quietly, looking only at her friend.

Nodding quickly, Hermione squeezed Ginny's hand, relieved that she didn't have to face this part alone. And, to their relief, Tossi only shrugged and casually said, "Why not?" before leading them back.

During the exam itself, Hermione had to remind herself over and over to breathe, to relax, that she wasn't being hurt. For no matter how gently the healer proceeded, no matter how calmly he explained every step of the process, the brown-haired witch could not help being reminded of previous painful violations with each touch beneath her paper gown.

Yet Ginny anchored her. She held Hermione's cheek with one hand so that she could see only her, never breaking eye contact, her look seeming to repeat the words she had spoken in the trolley on the way over. _You are strong. I'm here. You can do this. _Even when Hermione found herself unable to stop her silent stream of tears, Ginny only wiped them with a thumb, holding her steady, and calmly telling her every story she could think of, particularly those that involved any of her brothers doing embarrassing things when they were younger. Although just barely, it was enough to carry her through it and through the blood-work that followed.

And then again it was enough to carry her through the series of questions that followed that, when Ginny's hand had slipped from her face to once again hold one of Hermione's, when Ginny's words had changed from stories to whispers of "It's okay. I'm still here. You're doing great."

Often, she had to draw strength from the younger girl, when a word or memory was required and her mouth couldn't seem to form it. The DYWWP investigator, a specialist with a background in both forensics and counseling, was kind and soft-spoken, ready with tissues and willing to take as much time as necessary. She would pause and allow Hermione a breather before every new series of who-when-and-whats, reassuring her along with Ginny that none of it had been her fault.

Still, it felt like a violation, to recall again his every word and where he had put his hands, his mouth, his . . . to recall every bruise and scar she had mended and to have the magic verified and rewitnessed by all three of them when she placed her wand in a special rectangular tube attached to a plate sized screen.

Molly had wanted to be there for this part, but had understood why Hermione only took Ginny. And now, seeing the bruised and battered face of that September day come alive on the device, watching herself again as she lifted her robes and cured her most private and sensitive injuries, Hermione was glad of her decision. She appreciated the older woman, her motherliness, love, and encouragement, more than she could ever express. There were just some demons she could not yet face in the presence of more than a few others.

When all was said and done and Hermione had signed her name shakily to her statement, the investigator, whose name she could neither pronounce nor remember, had handed her a card with the number for her personal line at the agency. "We'll send word to you the moment there are any developments in the case, and in the mean time if you have any questions, any new information, or, if you just need to talk, call. Okay?"

Hermione nodded curtly but gratefully, and watched the woman in the sharp black robes disappear through the glass doors of the hospital conference room, taking with her a thick Mahogany folder that held written details of her every shame.

She had a thousand questions she wanted to scream after her, more perhaps than even the investigator had had for her, but she was too tired to ask them, too tired from all that she had had to tell to put any other words together and allow them to leave her mouth.

Slumping against Ginny, who was praising her for how well she had done, Hermione was simply glad that one more part was over. And as they too left the room, to find Molly, she was gladder still that this night, and perhaps the next, would be spent at the Burrow. The Weasleys had felt it the safest place from which to work on all that needed done, from which to sort out all that needed sorted, without worrying about the stray eyes and ears of other students.

And Hermione, though she was glad that she could hold off questions from Harry and Ron a little longer, that she could avoid professors having to see her being led away to speak to someone from the DYWWP, was more glad of something greater still. That she was, for the first time in seven months, headed somewhere she might call _home_.


	18. Picture Shows

For that night, and the four that followed, Hermione and Ginny remained at the Burrow, under the fussy care of the latter's mother. Mrs. Weasley had taken it upon herself to give Hermione a triple-helping of the parental nourishment that had so long been denied to her, whether it took the form of hugs, home-cooked meals, or simply a basket of warm, pressed laundry.

Moreover, Arthur had taken it upon _himself _to try to make things as normal as possible for the girls and to drive time forward more quickly. He had taken the week off from the Ministry to play the adoring, if comical, father, and he insisted on many a diverting trip out, against all of Molly's tittering protests about "rest" and "too much excitement."

"Really, dear!," he laughed, as his wife piled impossibly large helpings of sausages and waffles on everyone's plates Friday morning, "You can't expect two bright young witches to spend all the time they have to play Hookey trapped up in some house! Why, when I'd get a chance to ditch school at their age . . ."

Joke though he might, Hermione suspected that he was more concerned, and more knowledgeable about all that had transpired, than he let on. She noticed how on each of their trips out--to a library, a wizarding zoo, a muggle amusement park--they always headed determinedly southwest, in the exact opposite direction of where Jacob's mansion stood. She noticed even more how, although the older Weasley man did not avoid touching her, he always did so carefully, gently, and with a hesitance that said she had the right to refuse any hug or pat on the back he offered.

But if he did know, or suspect, that there was more than physical abuse behind Hermione's case, he didn't let on or bother her with a single question on the subject.

Harry and Ron, however, were a different story entirely. Once Wednesday had come and gone and Mrs. Weasley's prescribed no-contact period had ended, she and Ginny both received an almost steady torrent of owls from them.

They inquired about Hermione's well-being and wrote long lists of hexes that they would love to practice on Jacob for ever raising a hand to her. They complained bitterly, but jokingly, about how they'd surely fail their classes if their homework-editor did not soon return, and they spent a page of parchment apiece recounting how Draco Malfoy had tripped over a trailing end of Luna's fairy-dust-protective-arm-scarf and had nearly fallen face first into a vat of Aging Potion. They had asked repeatedly whether Ginny and Hermione would return to Hogwarts by the weekend, and whether or not, if they weren't planning to, they could convince Mrs. Weasley to allow Ron and Harry a few days at the Burrow as well.

Hermione opened each letter as if it were a Christmas present from a long-lost and much-loved relative, reading and re-reading them more often than she had _Hogwarts: A History. _In turns, she was touched and amused by the stories, pleas, and questions they contained, but more she was thankful for the questions which were absent. Ron and Harry never asked her, for example, why she had chosen to confide in Ginny and not them, why she had lied to them so often, why she had waited so long to seek help. Nor did they push her for details of what she had suffered. Rather, they simply sent pages upon pages that resounded with the messages she needed to hear most: _You're our best mate, We love you, We miss you. _

Even in her relief that they still felt that way, however, Hermione reminded herself that the truth they knew was only partial. Still, they did know enough of what she had always feared--that she had allowed someone to hurt her and had been too weak to fight him off and seek help, that she had betrayed and deceived them for most of the year with her lies about nothing else being the matter. They knew that much, and it did not lessen their love for her.

Dwelling on what the boys and others believed as well as their reactions to it, Hermione wondered why she had not been smart enough to think of that solution from the beginning. She could have left her bruises and broken bones and simply told everyone that Jacob had beat her. Then, she could have been taken away from him without any questions of there ever being anything more to his mistreatment.

_But no_, she thought, resigned to all that had happened. Those were injuries she could have healed herself, that she did heal herself. But the other scars, the invisible ones deep inside of her, she was beginning to believe that they needed a different medicine, one her own wand could never provide. They needed Molly's fierce protectiveness, Arthur's gentle graces, Ginny's arms and words . . . for others to know and insist she still be loved. They needed even Hermione, needed her to forgive herself, and although she could not do so yet, she felt she had made a start.

As Arthur continued to regale the table with stories of his misspent youth, Hermione pushed these thoughts away with the rest of her half-eaten sausages. They were something to consider further, but not now with so many eyes trained to read her every emotion. No, now was the time for more diversion, for almost five days had passed already, and still none of them had heard anything from the Department of Young Witch and Wizard Protection.

Hermione had fingered the card with their number in her pocket so often that most of the lettering had begun to fade. Several times she had almost even gotten up the courage to use it, to call and demand to know what was taking so long, whether they'd questioned him, and what had been said or decided. She knew Molly had done just that several times though, always when Hermione wasn't in the room, and she knew the answer had always been the same, "Nothing to tell yet. All in time. Keep you posted."

Another anxiety to be pushed away, and she tried to focus instead on Arthur's excitement. This evening, he was taking them to see his very first muggle picture show, a third-run cartoon about a talking car.

Hours later, they left the theater with their stomachs full of popcorn and boarded the trolley. The whole way home, Arthur pestered Hermione with a thousand questions about whether or not any models of cars really could talk and whether or not it was true that the whole movie had been done with nothing but one of those muggle quill-thingies.

"Pens and pencils," Hermione reminded him of the words, as they made their way up the path to the Burrow and opened the kitchen-side door.

Her eyes adjusting to the warm light inside, Hermione knelt to remove her boots and explain more about the wonderment of story-boards, when a voice stopped her.

"Wotcher, Arthur, Ginny, Hermione . . ."

Spinning around and feeling her heart practically stop, she saw Tonks standing there, her hair now a light-shade of purple and her arms holding a folder with the insignia of the DYWWP.

Arthur, mumbling about needing to add the words he had learned to his growing muggle dictionary, gave a small bow and smile to Hermione before quickly excusing himself.

"Sit, please, Hermione, Ginny," Mrs. Weasley said, tightly pressing her lips together and then pulling out a chair at the table for herself. "Tonks is here to . . . well, there have been some,"

"Unexpected developments," the spiky-haired witch finished. "And we all need to talk."


	19. Strangers Unmasked

"Hermione," Tonks began, "First I want you to know how sorry I am. My hair went gray for two days when Molly told me. And it was all I could do to keep from jinxing him when we . . ."

"You saw him then?," Hermione gulped, aware that Tonks knew but surprised that she had been there for the questioning.

"Yes, I saw him. The job of the DYWWP is to find the facts and make the decisions, but an independent advocate is always appointed for the young wizard or witch involved, and I volunteered for the position, with Molly's prompting, so that we could rest assured that your interests always came first."

"What, what did he say, then?" Hermione eeked out, feeling woozy and clinging tightly to Ginny's hand.

"You needn't trouble yourself with . . ."

"No, I can bear it, or at least it's more than I can bear wondering or not knowing. Please, I need to hear everything. _Everything_," Hermione interrupted.

"Right," Tonks replied, swallowing hard and then smiling with an empathic resignation, "Well, of course he denied it, denied everything. He said . . . said, well that he'd caught you with a few of his menservants, figured it was a reaction to your grief, a need for attention . . ."

"And they believed him, didn't they?," Hermione choked out, unable to stop herself.

"No, Hermione. No, of course not. _None _of us _ever_ doubted you, and it's beside the point. Gwendyll's Law allows the use of Veritaserum, even on muggles, in cases like this. One healthy dose and he told us everything, so much that it made me sick," Tonks assured her, shaking her head and sniffling once.

"Then I, I really don't have to go back, not ever?" Hermione offered tentatively, afraid to be hopeful before the answer was given.

"No, Hermione, not ever, if I have anything to do with it," Tonks said with a firm edge to her voice.

They sat there for a second, all of them lost in the news that had been brought, Ginny smiling bittersweetly and Hermione crying harder, though tears of relief.

A few minutes passed before Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat and gave Tonks a look across the table, a look that said there was more to it, more that the two women had already discussed and that the younger girls needed to be made aware of.

With a nod, Tonks waited until Hermione had blown her nose on a napkin, and then continued, "Hermione, that isn't everything. What do you know about a man called Gililead Bronx?"

Hermione shook her head, never having heard the name before and unsure what it had to do with anything.

Tonks prompted her further, "a portly man, shorter than you, with wispy white hair, an American accent, and a cane with a bear's head carved into it?"

Hermione shuddered. She felt as if she had been punched in the stomach, and it took more than a minute to regain her ability to focus and breathe. _Gililead_, she thought, so that was his name.

Although she didn't fear the man like she did Jacob, didn't see him in her nightmares or spend every day haunted by his face, she loathed him almost as much. He was not a memory any worse or any better than all of the others jammed into her head. He was, however, the one piece Hermione had held back, from Ginny and even her own thoughts. He was the one thing she thought no one would ever need find out about it. He was, in short, living proof that--abused or not--she had been a whore.

It was a quiet, rainy night a few weeks after Jacob had broken her. Her arms were already tied and her mouth taped, when she noticed he wasn't undressing.

"My pet," he had cooed, running a single finger down her bare ribs and smiling coyly when she shivered, "You know what we have is special, something never to be shared with another, never by word nor deed. Still, I owe a debt; you owe a debt, for something that was done for both of us."

Hermione didn't understand what Jacob meant, but she wouldn't have the had strength to ask even if her mouth had not been stuck closed. He continued, in the mock soothing-sweet tone she had grown to associate with only the greatest of hurts, "Tonight, my pet, tonight you shall pay it in full, in the manner I have already promised."

With that Jacob left, and she wondered what he had meant by a payment. Was he going to fetch one of his rifles, make her give her life in exchange for all the trouble he always said she caused him? Much time passed before she heard the door open again, time in which she braced herself for whatever it was, time in which she questioned whether the prospect of death even bothered her.

Yet, when she opened her eyes, not Jacob but another, older man stood there. He spoke not a word, but simply undressed and then crawled into the bed beside her. He was gentler than Jacob, never hitting or taunting her, and he didn't last quite as long. Still, it was a small death, even if of a different sort. It left her body no worse off, but her mind reeling in a new disgust of what her life had come to.

She remembered, in the after, that she had not been untied, not been allowed to shower or dress for over an hour. Both of her arms had already fallen asleep and every muscle in her back had cramped by the time she heard more footsteps, by the time Jacob had rejoined her to add the hurt of his own body to those she already felt.

He never spoke of the man again, not that night or any other, and Hermione, afraid that any question might remind him and tempt him to give her body up to others, never asked.

As she lost herself in the memory, unfelt tears streaming down her cheeks, she heard Tonks clear her throat and say her name softly.

"I was payment, my body," Hermione spoke robotically before burying her head in her hands on the table.

"Hermione, it's okay, we already know. The Veritaserum--but of course you didn't have a choice, and the American Wizard Enforcement League, they've already questioned and arrested him."

"Herm?," Ginny whispered, noticing the other girl's distress and leaning her cheek lightly against Hermione's arm, "Herm, were there . . . others?"

"No," she answered, through a slow head shake instead of words, glad that it was the truth. Tuning out the other women present, Ginny nestled even closer and reminded her in more whispers that she hadn't had a choice, that she understood why she hadn't said anything, that it was okay, and that nothing in the world could make her, or her mother, love her any less, especially not this.

Clenching her stomach and forcing her mind to focus only on the rhythm of Ginny's breathing, Hermione calmed her body. She no longer had any more secrets, not a single one, and she didn't know whether the realization should make her dance around the room in joy or find a hole in some corner to crawl into and hide in shame. As it was, the most she could do was force herself to lift her head, retake Ginny's hand, and ask the lingering question she hadn't until now dared.

"What?" Hermione asked, trying to keep her voice steady. "What was I payment for? You know. He told you, didn't he?"

Tonks looked down at the table and began playing with one of her rings while Molly grabbed another tissue and put it to use on her face.

"Yes, Hermione," Tonks answered softly, "he did."


	20. Revelations and Petitions

The ability to feel emotion had fled her as Hermione numbly listened to the story Tonks then told:

When Jacob had stopped cooperating with the investigation, the two agents present had held him while Tonks forced him to take the Veritaserum. In their struggle, a larger than necessary and slower-to-wear off dose had been given to the man, who then began confessing to each of his twisted acts, through clenched teeth, but nonetheless at length and mostly unprompted.

When all the information they needed to proceed had been gathered, one of the DYWWP agents asked him, in closing, whether or not he had hurt anyone else besides Hermione. It was standard procedure and a question asked to all child abusers, the intent being to make sure that there weren't other victims, and to find and help them if there were.

Jacob had struggled for a moment, trying to keep his lips closed against the words that the potion was pushing out of him, but he met with no success and a torrent of confessions followed. Four years earlier, while still living in America, Jacob had abused and raped his three muggle step-daughters on a regular basis. When his then wife found a stash of violent pornography featuring preteens and teenagers under an old mattress in the shed, she questioned her girls and was given the truth.

Jacob's lawyer had managed to come to an agreement with the prosecutor. He would plead guilty, not dragging the girls through a long trial that had no grounding in DNA evidence, and in exchange his sentence would be reduced to the loss of more than half his assets as well as his deportment to his home country. Other secret deals were made, and somehow the record of his crimes didn't follow him.

Gililead Bronx had testified on his behalf and tried to provide him with an alibi, being a long-time friend who had joined Jacob in many a covert and twisted exploit. After the deportation, the two exchanged several coded letters, the latter griping often about his frustration with how hard exercising such pleasures had become. In Jacob's opinion, the problem had always been the mother, who he had only married for her sweet and charming daughters. If only he could have a daughter that didn't come with one of those . . .

But then Jacob remembered that he did have a daughter, one he had given up grudgingly at her mother's insistence that she wouldn't raise a child to long for a father she never saw. Quite a bit of Reginald's money had changed hands, and Hermione's mother had had to sign an agreement to send pictures and annual updates, before the adoption papers were finally signed and air-mailed back across the sea.

As he took to staring at those pictures, night after night, he became obsessed with desire for the now budding heir he had produced and never known. He wrote of her to Gililead, sending along copies of the pictures, and the older man came to visit, their late night jokes and if-onlys taking shape into the plan they would enact.

For Gililead had recognized the girl in the photo, had seen her two or three times before, moping in the lobby during the British National Dental Convention, an a event at which he was yearly a featured speaker. She always had had her nose stuck in a book while her parents flitted from seminar to seminar, and even then he'd taken a liking to the girl.

It just so happened that Gililead had taken up a passion for restoring antique cars in his youth and had never given it up. He knew where the Grangers practiced, knew how quickly and easily the brakes of their rusty van could be altered. He could do the job himself, if Jacob was willing to agree to the terms: One night a year with Hermione and the ten-thousand pounds needed to settle his most recent gambling debt . . .

When Tonks had finished, no one moved or looked to speak another word for some time.

Finally, her fists clenched in anger, Ginny broke the silence. "What's being done to him, this other man?"

Shaking herself free of whatever thoughts were going through her head, Tonks responded, "The Americans have him in custody as I said, and this morning they confirmed from his own potion-forced lips the truth of the deed. We were waiting for it to be settled to tell you, but he's been convinced to plead guilty for Second Degree Murder before a muggle court, and at his age he won't draw breath outside of prison again.

"And Jacob, what of him?," the youngest Weasley continued, her arm once more protectively around Hermione.

"He's a different story all together. It's against wizard and muggle law both, the horrible things he's done. Right now he's under house-arrest and the watch of two of our best aurors, but being a muggle, the general practice is to make him be tried in their system."

"Then he will be? When?" Ginny pushed on, her voice full of the need for vengeance.

"Well," Tonks sighed, "It's not that simple. Gililead in all his ruthlessness turned out to be a pushover, but Jacob . . . he's made threats, threats against the Ministry and against the Secrecy Statute. He says if he's not allowed free and Hermione isn't returned to him at once, he'll go to the press, the papers, whoever he can until our world is known to the public at large. We believe that he'd do it."

"Well give him something to shut up his thestral-dung filled mouth then! Have someone sit in the court and hex him every time he . . ."

"Ginny," Tonks interrupted with a tone that said she understood the girl's frustration, "It's not that simple. There are laws about interfering in the muggle courts, and although we have Veritaserum for compelling the truth to come out, we have no potion that will do the reverse. Of course, we could work a memory charm, but as his knowledge of the wizarding world is wrapped up in his knowledge of Hermione, it would cost us our ability to force the confession."

"You're not saying he'll go free?," Hermione squeaked, her fear finally overcoming her silence.

"No, Hermione, no," Tonk assured her, grudging adding, "Well, at least we should hope not."

"Then, will someone bloody tell us what _will _happen?," Ginny shouted, her frustration at the adults' obscurity growing.

"We don't know," Tonks replied, "but we're working on it. Caroline Shocksow, the head of the DYWWP, has put in a petition to the Wizengamot. There's a small exception on the books, one that requires special permissions to pursue and one which hasn't been used in over a century. It allows muggles to be tried under wizarding law, in cases where there are no safe alternatives and where, with beforehand knowledge of our world, a muggle commits a UT against a witch or wizard."

"UT?" Hermione asked, having never come across the term.

"Unforgivable Transgression, like an unforgivable curse but not done with a wand," Ginny explained.

"What are they?," Hermione probed further, not sure if she really wanted to know.

"There are only three," Tonks told her, "premeditated murder, torture, and . . . well, rape. He's committed two that we'll press, but all three if you want my opinion. "

"And if the Wizengamot approves the petition?," Molly asked, reminding them all that she was still present.

"Then we move forward to a trial."

"And if they don't?"

"Then we do . . . whatever we can."


	21. Truth

Though it hurt her heart to do so, Molly pushed Hermione and Ginny to return to Hogwarts on the Sunday night that followed. She expressed her desire to come along, but all of them knew that the other students would notice and grow more suspicious, even if Molly stayed in their dorm room and lived off whatever scraps they could pilfer from the Great Hall during meals.

So in the end, only the two girls climbed into the green flames of the fireplace for the half-hour floo-connection specially set up between it and the Gryffindor common room. Neither of them was ready, Hermione most of all, but neither of them knew how much longer it would be before the Wizengamot reached its decision. As it was, Ginny had OWLs quickly approaching and even Hermione had left off schoolwork during her time at the Burrow. If there was a trial, even more days in class might be lost, so they couldn't afford to linger and wait.

Tonks had explained to Hermione, that if, as they hoped, a trial was initiated, the choice of whether or not to be present was hers alone. Though such cases were held in closed-court, she had the right to attend as a victim, along with anyone supporting her. But she also had the right, as a minor under Gwendyll's Law, to have her signed statement read in her absence. With the confession they'd gotten, there would be no need for much cross-examination anyway.

Ginny and Molly had already firmly declared their intentions to be present, and Tonks had echoed the sentiment. Hermione, however, would not yet commit either way. Every time she pictured him in her mind, pictured him being in the same room with her, her fear told her she could never do it.

And he wasn't the only one Hermione was afraid of facing. She knew from Harry just how large the Wizengamot was, and that the headmaster of her school was the Chief Warlock sitting it. Already, she worried about running into him in the hallways of Hogwarts or meeting his blue eyes during dinner in the Great Hall. Although the decision on the petition facing the court was not Dumbledore's alone to make, he of all people would have to read each and every detail while it was under consideration. Even if Hermione's name was left off it, and she wasn't sure if it was at this point in the proceedings, she still sensed that Dumbledore would know who the victim of those acts was. After all, how many other recently-orphaned witches had been pulled out of school in the last week due to suspected abuse?

No, she thought, it was one thing that she would probably cringe inside every time she now saw the headmaster, aware of his new, specific knowledge. It was another thing to have to do that with a whole skew of other, as yet unknown, witches and wizards of the court, ones she might have to work with when she finished school, if she went into the ministry herself.

Again, it was one thing to know that Dumbledore had read her words on a page, another thing to physically be there, all eyes on her, when the details of everything Jacob did to her were read aloud for the court.

Yet Hermione had not expressed these specific worries, not even to Ginny, who, she sensed, thought it might do her good to go and see him locked away with her own eyes. She'd leave that decision for when the time came, for as much as it hurt her to think of the pains the trial might bring, it hurt her more to hope for any good that could come out of it. She didn't want to dwell on his conviction until she knew that there was a chance it could come to pass, especially since so much in her still feared that there might not even be a trial.

For now she would push those thoughts aside, and brace herself instead for the return to school that was upon them.

* * *

Stepping into the common room and dusting the soot from their jeans, Hermione and Ginny were not surprised to find two anxious sixth-year boys standing there waiting for them. Arthur, with Hermione's permission, had owled ahead the girls' arrival time, and even an arcromantula infestation would not have kept Ron and Harry from meeting their friend the moment she arrived.

It was awkward at first, seeing each other again, as so many letters had passed between the four-some but so many words, until this moment, had been left unspoken.

Finally, Ron broke the silence, stepping forward to hug his sister and then his mate, muttering, "Al'right then, Herm?"

Facing them both, Hermione's lips began to form the words to convince them that everything was fine, but she stopped and reminded herself that the time for such simple lies had long passed. Instead, she simply shook her head "no" to Ron's question.

"Suppose you wouldn't be, eh?" Harry chimed in, gesturing to an empty seat by the fire and taking a position on the rug close to it.

"Yeah, ruddy-hell," Ron added, joining his friend on the floor, "Suppose I wouldn't be either."

Hermione, ignoring the proffered chair, sat between them and pressed both hands to the bridge of her nose as if she had a headache. She was unsure of what to say next and everyone else seemed to be too.

"Do you, er, wanna talk about it?" Harry finally asked, as Ron leaned his head back against the empty chair and Ginny took a seat facing Hermione.

She nodded; she did. The problem was that she still wasn't sure how.

"Right then," Ron added, giving her a half-shrug, "Whenever you're, you know . . . ready."

Taking a deep breath, Hermione thought about what she would say. She wanted to apologize for everything she had put them through and for all of the lies she had told, to bask in the reassurance that they might not be mad at her. She wanted to thank them for their letters and tell them how much their concern had meant, to tell them what Tonks had discovered about her parents' death, to rattle off all of her worries about the upcoming trial and whether or not there would even be one. There were a million things Hermione wanted to say, but she knew she wouldn't say any of them if she let her thoughts run away with her instead of simply making a start.

The last thing she planned to say, though, was the words that actually left her mouth. "Harry, Ron, . . . he didn't just hit me."

Ron looked down, his face red in embarrassment and both of his fists balled tight in anger, while Harry, his face pale but his eyes still on Hermione, nodded and said, "We kinda figured."

"Yeah," Ron added, his breathing measured, "When it was Ginny . . . and well, you didn't tell anyone for so long."

"And," Harry said, "Mrs. Weasley was so careful about it."

Noticing how faint Hermione looked, he added, "We, err . . . don't know exactly what he, uh, did to you. We don't know anything really. But we thought that there might be more to it, and that since we were guys, maybe you didn't tell us because it had to do with . . . well, you know, you don't have to tell us. You can; we want you to. But you don't have to."

Hermione took a deep breath, and, barely above a whisper, sealed the decision she hadn't thought herself brave enough to make. "He raped me."

The air went out of Ron, and when Hermione looked at him, she saw a tear sliding down his freckled cheek.

Then she looked at Harry, whose own eyes were wet, and noticed him holding out an arm with a hesitant expression as if he wanted to embrace her but wouldn't touch her without permission. Taking Ron's hand, she nodded to him, and before she knew it one boy was hugging her from each side, with Ginny giving her an encouraging smile just beyond.

Nothing more was said, and nothing more needed to be. She knew she would never tell them all the haunting details, not like she had done with Ginny. But neither would she need to lie to her two oldest friends again.


	22. Waiting

The next week came and went, taking with it the last gusts of cold still lingering from the winter.

Hermione had settled back into her schoolwork, though not with the same ferocity as before, and as the weekend approached, she was glad to discard a only half-finished Transfiguration scroll in exchange for a walk on the grounds with her boys.

Ginny joined them, had been absorbed by the trio without question, and Hermione couldn't help but notice how much the younger girl's constant presence seemed to be lifting Harry's spirits. _Perhaps he fancies her_, Hermione thought with amusement, and she wondered if she should share that notion with her new suitemate or simply wait and let things develop as they may.

Deciding upon the latter, Hermione realized that she had once again missed the train of the conversation around her, and she laughed in her relief that, for once, it was because she had been caught up in thoughts that any normal girl might have.

"Think that's funny, eh, Herm? Bullocks if it didn't hurt like hell, though," Ron winced, giving her a playful nudge on the shoulder.

"No, I'm sorry, I . . . what?" Hermione responded, shoving him lightly back and then catching herself before she tripped over a tangle of undergrowth that had begun attacking the path down to the lake.

"Oh, Ron's just on about the fantastic, _ever-so-manly _scar on his arm again, Herm. Really, you oughtn't listen, or you might be caught up in how rugged and brave he is," Ginny teased.

Ron, his face reddening, gruffed back, "Well, it did hurt. Like to see you do a double-half-twist on your broom and still manage to knock the Quaffle out of the ring with the tip of your boot before you slid off it."

"Actually, mate, she probably _could _and land on her feet," Harry laughed, as they came to a stop and the other three helped him spread a ragged picnic blanket out on the grass.

Joining them on the ground, Hermione wondered at all that had changed, within and outside of herself. She wasn't sure at first what had compelled her to tell the boys the truth on the Sunday she had returned to Hogwarts, and she wasn't sure for a few days after that if she regretted it. Maybe it was because, through everything with Ginny, and Molly, and Tonks, she had started to realize how much less exhausting it was than maintaining her secrets and lies. Maybe it was a test, a need to prove that she could speak the words even when they weren't being forced out of her by someone too concerned to let her go on carrying the pain alone. But whatever the reason, she then thought, it wasn't so important anymore, especially now that she was sure she didn't regret the decision.

Ron and Harry had become the kind of bodyguards to her spirit during the day that Ginny had been in her nightmares. They cursed loudly and made many vulgar vows of vengeance when Hermione had told them about how Jacob had arranged the death of her parents, even though she left out the price she had to pay for it.

Harry and Ron had found Seamus after a comment from Ginny made them remember the joke that he had told, and Hermione couldn't help but feel loved as she watched her red-headed friend pretending to trip and loose control of his long-limbs on top of the other boy. Harry had then tried to help Ron up and ending up 'accidentally' stepping on more than a few parts of his Irish suitemate's sprawled body. Seamus' nose still didn't look the same, despite Madam Pomfrey's ministrations. Never, except at night or when asked, did the two boys leave her side, and she knew that their presence kept her from being pestered with many inquiries from other students who had noticed her absence the week before.

For all that they did that she was thankful for, however, Hermione was even more thankful for what they did not do. They didn't, for example, press her even once to expand upon the truths she had told them. They didn't treat her like a piece of glass, look at her in disgust, or stop touching her, even though their pats and hugs had seemed to grow a little more gentle. Ron even still blushed sometimes and tried to conceal a smile when her hand would brush against his at dinner or on one of their walks. _Maybe someday,_ she mused, shaking the thought from her head. She knew, normal as the feelings might be, the idea of romance with any boy was now beyond her, something to be put on the backburner to make way for all the other, more immediate, worries on her plate.

At night, she was glad to have Ginny as a sounding board for these worries. With each day that passed without a hint of the decision on the petition, her list of painful what-ifs and disastrous maybes grew. If he involved the muggle law and told the right lies, could he have her returned to him? What if Molly and Arthur couldn't get custody, and she was sent to a foster family who would treat her the same way, one who would not understand about Hogwarts? What if the Wizengamot found him innocent, or decided that they could not put a muggle in wizarding jail and gave him only probation instead? What if the aurors left him alone for a just a moment, and he managed to escape? For the right amount of gold, could he find a dark wizard willing to fetch her, even from here? With the right amount of hatred, could he surpass the limitations of his lack of magic and find a way to come for her himself?

On Wednesday, she had thought she would have at least part of her answer. A thick envelope, marked confidential and bearing no return address, had been dropped on her plate by an owl during breakfast. Holding it close to her chest and excusing herself from the table, she headed for the hall with Ginny on her heels. As Hermione's trembling fingers broke the seal and she unfolded the parchment within, however, she knew immediately that it wasn't what she had hoped for. Instead it was a simple short notice from St. Mungo's, reporting her test results and giving her a clean bill of health in all matters. Granted, she had been relieved to read it, but it was a different sort of relief than the one she so desperately needed.

Hermione knew, at least, that she wasn't the only one awaiting the petition's verdict with great anxiety. Ginny had already gone to Dumbledore twice, only to be told, with as much kindness as he could muster, that he couldn't discuss the proceedings, not even with her, not even with Hermione. Not that Hermione, still avoiding the old man, would have asked him to.

Equally anxious, Molly wrote daily, unaware of how each owl, dipping toward her at the table, gave Hermione a stomach-churning sense of false hope and dread. Nevertheless, Hermione'd read her letters over and over and was touched by them, even though they were mostly sappy and repetitive, even though they contained no more information about what might happen than Dumbledore had already provided.

She also scanned the headlines of the Daily Prophet she was delivered every evening, both hoping it would give her more to go on and fearing that it would say anything that might make her case publicly known or hint at her identity. So far, not a single line.

Already it was Friday, and she knew the Wizengamot were in recess on weekends, so she held out no hope for learning anything more soon. Instead, she laid her head in Ginny's lap, listening as her three best friends chatted about summer plans and upcoming exams, between sips of their butter beers.

She must have fallen asleep to the lull of their voices, because when she opened her eyes again the sun was lower in the sky, Ginny was running her fingers absentmindedly through Hermione's hair, and the boys were several feet away skipping stones across the lake.

Slowly, she stretched and sat up, and then asked the Weasley girl if she knew the time. But Ginny wasn't listening. Instead, Hermione noticed, her eyes were intent on something just over the crest of the hill behind them, and curious, Hermione turned to see what it could be. It took a second for her eyes to adjust from the darkness of sleep to the dull shine of the afternoon sun, but when they did, Hermione could just make out a small student, the younger of the Creevey boys she thought, picking his way down the hill, a piece of paper in his hand.

Arriving at the blanket, Dennis shyly handed the sealed parchment to Hermione, simply saying, "from Professor McGonagall." Then he nodded at Ginny and trotted off toward Harry, whom he'd only just noticed, pestering the older lad with a series of enthusiastic greetings and questions, the hum of which just met the girls' ears.

"McGonagall?," Ginny echoed quizzically, as Hermione only shook her head and shrugged.

When she broke the seal, however, Hermione realized that McGonagall must have only been an intermediary, receiving the letter in her absence and then finding someone to seek her out and deliver it. She knew this because the handwriting was not the tight, high-lettered scrawl of their head of house.

Holding the paper so that Ginny could see it over her shoulder, Hermione read

_Court just adjourned. Petition was granted. Trial to proceed next week. Will be in touch with the details. ~Tonks_

before letting go of a breath she hadn't even known she was holding.


	23. One Thing

Dressed in a neatly pressed set of new school robes, Hermione rubbed her finger back and forth over the hastily carved letters in the wooden bench beneath her, M-R. She wondered what that stood for. _Mercy Regained, Madame Revenge, Magical Revelations? _Maybe it was just someone's initials, someone who felt the need for the wizarding world to know that he or she had been here, sitting on this very bench. Had that person been awaiting trial, as a Death Eater or other dark wizard? Or, like her, had they simply been waiting for the results of a trial, waiting to know whether they would be safe that night from the person who had hurt them? Hermione didn't know, probably wouldn't ever know. But if the person who had scratched those letters was anything like her, she hoped it had ended well.

* * *

Her plan hadn't been to come at all. Up until that morning, she had intended to stay at Hogwarts, to fake sick to get out of Thursday double-potions, to wait in her room alone for word of the verdict the Wizengamot handed down.

Tonks had assured her that no matter what the results, what the judgment, they would do everything in their power to prevent her from going back to him. None of them--not her, not Molly, not Arthur, not her friends--would stand by and let that happen, even if the Muggle Minister and the Minister of Magic together declared it.

"Do you think they'll find him guilty?," Hermione had asked her, wanting more than anything in the world for Tonks to just reply, "yes." Nevertheless, she was glad that the witch was honest with her, allowing her to cling to what little hope she had without worrying that it was falsely given.

"I don't know, Hermione. We think so. I mean, your statement was well-given, and your wand proved that many hurts had been laid to your body before you fixed them. It'd be better if we could use Veritaserum, if that Umbridge woman and her faction of followers had not interfered."

_Dolores Umbridge_, Hermione shivered, hating to hear that name even more now than she did the year before when the woman had tortured most of the school, and Harry in particular, with her unrelenting set of rules and her archaic physical punishments for their breakage. That hideous bow-topped toad had been one of the first matters discussed between Hermione, Ginny, and Tonks, on the evening following her letter.

She had been the reason the Wizengamot had taken most of a week to rule upon the petition, despite its most pressing nature. Although she was not known to be much of a defender of any but the most purebred of wizards, Dolores Umbridge, upon reading the case in all its detail, had decided that this man should not be tried in the wizarding court and had used her pomp and power within the ministry to persuade many members of the Wizengamot to at least half-heartedly agree. Thus, frequent arguments broke out between her and Dumbledore, who declared that her opinion was not based in the letter of the law but rather in her prejudice toward the victim. On his honor, he declared that he had heard Dolores refer to Hermione more than once as an "attention-seeking liar who hung out with all the wrong sorts."

"And so what if she is," Umbridge had countered, smiling sweetly and playing with the frills in her new pink dress robes. "That doesn't make it any more right that a poor man should be dragged before strangers with powers he doesn't even understand, for a crime he may or _may not _have committed."

"He admitted to it under Veritaserum, to horrible things, that surely you being a woman," Dumbledore had roared, only to be cut off by Umbridge tsking and shaking her head with a larger smile.

"Of course, Dumbledore, I forget your genius. Surely you can tell us of all the studies your brilliant mind has conducted on the use of Veritaserum on muggles. Surely you can give us some scientific proof that its effects are the same on them as they are on our kind."

"You know I can't, but all evidence nonetheless suggests," the old man had begun again, only to be cut off once more.

"Suggests? Suggests?," Umbridge had echoed, "Why Albus, do you mean to tell me that you, the supposed champion of all muggles, would let the fate of one hang on a suggestion? Not a fact, but a mere _suggestion_?"

Dumbledore had argued further and quite ferociously, but in the end the court was split and a compromise had to be made. Jacob Mattleby would be charged by the Wizengamot for each of his crimes in order to best protect the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Yet, though he would be tried by wizards and punished as a wizard if found guilty, he would be tried in the ways of his own kind. This meant that no magic, including Veritaserum, could be used on him during his testimony and that the information that had previously been given by him under use, or threat, of magic would be stricken from the record and no longer admissible in court.

* * *

At least_, _Hermione mentally sighed, it was conceded that he would still be kept under house-arrest and auror-guard until the trial proceeded. At least she knew she was safe for a few more days.

After that . . . she didn't want to think about it. They had to find him guilty; they just had to.

But she didn't have much hope in her left for that, and she needed to know what his fate, her fate, would be as soon as was plausible. Maybe that was why she had decided on that destined morning that, even though every sinew of her mind and body cried out against it, she would have to go to the Ministry with them. Tonks had assured her that a special room would be prepared for her to wait in so that she not have to witness the actual trial itself or ever cross paths with him. Molly, Arthur, Ron, and Harry had all agreed to wait with her there, to distract and comfort her in her anxiety, to hear the verdict with her the second it was known.

Ginny, however, had been torn. She refused to leave her friend's side for a second, but she wanted more than anything to see the man who had caused that friend so much hurt accused, before all, for each of his sins and punished accordingly. In the end, it had been Hermione who had pushed her decision. She needed someone she could trust to attend in her stead and observe, someone who she knew would be able to report back any detail she asked for, and who would comfort her in the telling. And, honestly, Hermione could think of no better person for the job than her Ginny. So Ginny had gone.

Two hours passed as they sat there, trying unsuccessfully to make small talk about less important matters. One-hundred and twenty agonizing minutes during which Hermione could barely think or breathe.

Finally, the door opened, revealing Tonks and Ginny, and Hermione forced herself to look at their faces, regretting it instantly.

"They've let him go, haven't they?," she said, her voice flat from the pressure of too many emotions.

Ginny shook her "no," but the girl was still crying, and even Tonks, her hair gray again, looked as if she wanted to.

"They . . . well, it's a recess. They haven't reached a decision," the older of the two started. "Hermione, it's . . . I want to be honest with you. It's not going well. Really, I don't understand how the muggles do it, without Veritaserum. He has a counter-story for each of your accusations, a lie to cover every bruise. There is no witness, no DNA evidence, no non-magical means of proving he's lying. Even though," she added, "every one of us who matters believes you."

"Then there's nothing any of us can do, and I'll never be free of him," Hermione mumbled lifelessly, the room seeming to spin beyond her tears.

"Well, there is . . . one thing," Tonks said carefully. "Hermione, Umbridge made a good case against the use of Veritaserum on muggles . . ."

"I know," Hermione sniffed, "you already told me that."

"But _only_ against muggles," Tonks added quietly.

"What are you saying?" Ginny replied, wrapping her arms around her friend protectively and giving Tonks an angry look of shock that no one else caught.

Tonks paused, meeting each of their faces with a look of apology in her eyes and then steadying her gaze on the brown-haired girl held in Ginny's arms before continuing . . .

"That Hermione is a _witch_. Her statement wasn't taken under Veritaserum, but if she chose to give testimony before the court . . . it could be."


	24. Stand

As Hermione eased herself into the high-backed chair in the front-center of the cavernous courtroom, she heard the chatter of dozens of witches and wizards rising and falling around her, but she could not focus or make out any snippets of what was being said. Nor could she muster the courage to look in the far left corner, where Tonks had informed her that Jacob would be seated.

Although she knew he could not touch her, could not speak to her until the trial was over, it didn't make her fear him any less. Even now she knew his eyes were upon her. She pictured him mentally undressing her, brainstorming ideas for how he would use her body when the court found him innocent and, as her legal guardian, he demanded she return not to Hogwarts but to him. She wondered how he would punish her for telling . . .

Shuttering, she tried to focus instead on the words of those who cared about her. Molly and Arthur had assured Hermione that they would continue to fight for custody, with every galleon and knut they had, no matter the verdict given today. Ginny had sworn that, even if it meant taking on the ministry single-handedly, she would find a way to escape with Hermione to some hidden place until it was all over. All had told her that they could simply leave now and let anyone foolish enough try to take her later. All had told her that she didn't have to do this.

But still, here she was, and it had been of her own choosing. _If only Ginny could hold my hand now_, she thought, _and tell me how it's going to be okay, even if it isn't_. Forcing herself to look up from the lap of her own robes, she met the eyes of the red-headed girl twelve feet in front of her, and anchored herself to the love she saw in them.

Just then, Dumbledore approached the podium, called for silence, and spoke the words that meant it was too late to go back. "This day, many statements have been laid before us, yet what is fact--and what is fiction--regrettably remains to be sorted out in many minds. I ask that you bear witness as the young witch before you enlightens us by adding to the matter her testimony, given under the Veritaserum administered by my own hand. Miss Hermione Granger."

Hermione heard a ripple go through the courtroom as her name was spoken, as those deciding her fate realized exactly who it was now sitting before them. Raising the small colorless vial of liquid for all to see, Dumbledore turned his back on the court and took two brisk strides to where she sat. As he undid the stopper and began to draw three drops of the potion out, he spoke slowly and clearly in a voice that only she could hear. "Miss Granger, I regret that it is here we must meet, and under these circumstances. I fear I must tell you, as chief of this court, that once this potion is given, you will not be able to hold back anything you wish to hide. I fear more that I must ask you, as one who cannot even imagine your pain, whether or not you are sure of the choice you now make."

Afraid that meeting the old man's eyes would cause her to loose the tears building in her own, Hermione nodded quickly, opening her mouth, lest she change her mind. The drops had no taste, but she could feel them all the same, a tingling in her brain that made her aware that she was now under their control.

Stepping sideways, Dumbledore looked once between her and those gathered, his gaze speaking an apology meant for Hermione alone. Then it began.

The old man took her through the night that her parents had died and her first meeting with Jacob. He took her through her first rape, detail by detail, then asked her to recall how many more times Jacob had come for her, each hurt he had laid upon her body, each word he had laid upon her ears. He took her through Gililead, her recollection of the bargain, her reasons for maintaining her silence for so long.

Speaking these words was not as difficult as Hermione had imagined, for the question only needed to be asked and her mouth formed the truth of its own accord. The hard part was seeing the images the words brought to her mind, hearing them leave her lips, and knowing how many ears they fell on. Each one was like a small cut, reopening older wounds and taking away the life-force within her. She could barely hold her head up to see through her tears by the time her headmaster finished and turned, once more, to address the court.

"Witches and Wizards of the Wizengamot, you have just heard the exact nature of the unspeakable acts that Jacob Mattleby committed upon Miss Granger. She has bravely told us all how this man arranged to have her parents killed and offered her body up, without her consent, in the bargain. She has told us all how he was charged to provide and care for her and how, instead, he mercilessly and repeatedly beat her and raped her. You know that Miss Granger is a witch, and that," Dumbledore added, turning his stern gaze upon Dolores Umbridge, "she cannot lie under Veritaserum. We now have the truth, and must mete out justice accordingly. I ask that if none among you have an objection, we proceed to deliberations and, with all due speed, the pronouncement of a verdict."

The sound of the simpering female voice that responded would have stopped Hermione's heart if she still had any energy left to exert control over such functions. "But _I _have an objection."

"Dolores," Dumbledore began, "What details would you have that the girl has not already given? For surely, these truths are enough to lay the matter to rest!"

"Oh, Albus," Umbridge cooed sweetly, "I think you sometimes forget that you alone do not sit this court, and though your mind, full as it is, may be settled, many of the rest of us wish not to be hasty, not to overlook certain subjects you may have, quite accidentally I am sure, avoided. As is my right and leave, I shall approach the witness, to put to rest the questions of a tender-hearted witch who only wants to see justice served."

Hermione watched Ginny's face redden and saw her move her hand toward her pocket, stopping just short of drawing out her wand. Focusing on this, she resigned herself to the torture, knowing that no question was left to be asked about her abuse, which had not already been answered in full.

"Miss Granger, would you be so kind as to tell the court exactly how old you are?"

"Sixteen" Hermione answered cautiously, unsure what Umbridge was getting at.

"And I hear that although you were raised by muggles, you are a bright student who knows more about the ways of the wizarding world than many of her fellows?"

"I . . . I read a lot, and I do well enough in school, I guess."

"Then tell me, dear, in your reading and your classes, what have you learned of the _restriction on the use of underage magic_?"

Unsure how her answer could hurt her case, Hermione rattled off a weary but word-for-word description of British magical law, "No witch or wizard who has not yet attained the age of seventeen may use a wand for magical purposes outside of Hogwarts, lest they can prove that doing so was necessary to prevent bodily harm to themselves or those around them."

"And yet you fully admitted to this court that you did do so to heal several wounds on the 31st of August this year?"

Barely pausing to acknowledge Hermione's meek nod, Umbridge continued, "Yet, though you attest that you are an adept spellcaster, and though you were attacked by a mere muggle, you never once thought to use magic to prevent your so-called 'rapes'?"

"No, but I didn't have . . ." Hermione began to answer in panic, before the still-smiling woman cut her off.

"Yes or no answers will suffice, Miss Granger. There is much to uncover, and we musn't waste the court's time. So, you admit, that although you knew it would be covered under the clause of self-protection, you chose not to use magic to defend yourself from Jacob Mattleby's sexual advances. Yet, in the same period of time, you _did _choose to break the law, just to heal a few minor scrapes and bruises. In fact, you did so, as you told us yourself, to cover-up the marks of your father's attentions. Interesting. But we'll leave that subject for now. Tell me, Miss Granger, how many servants are employed in Jacob's household?"

"T-ten," Hermione stammered, still recovering from the insinuations of the woman's last remarks.

"Ten servants living, working, and sleeping, as Jacob told us, very close to your own bedchambers? And how many of them would be willing to come forth and testify to the abuses you claim?"

"They . . . they didn't know, didn't . . ."

"Indeed, I am sure that they did not know, my dear. Tell me, Hermione, if all of us were to close our eyes, and the court was to ask Jacob to come forward and 'rape' you right now, would not even the wizards in the very back row hear it?"

Hermione could not answer, could not shake herself of the picture Umbridge had just put in her mind. Dumbledore, however, his rage spilling over, rose on her behalf:

"ENOUGH! She has told this court that she was without a wand during the entire summer in question. She has already spoken to the fact that her hands were tied and her mouth shut with tape! She is underage and was forced without mercy, all attested to under _Veritaserum_. I warn you lady, keep your . . ."

"No, no, Albus," Umbridge interrupted. I apologize; you are quite right and I have but a few, very different, questions to ask before calling for our decision."

Sitting down in a huff with the knowledge that he could not legally forbid her, Dumbledore flicked his wrist angrily and bid the woman to continue.

"Miss Granger, tell me, aren't you quite good friends with one Mr. Harry Potter?"

Her face buried in her hands and her sobs unrestrained, Hermione managed another nod.

"And this same Mr. Potter has studied, under Severus Snape, the art of Occlumency, has told you, the adept student, the secrets of its practice? Tell me Hermione, what are the purposes of Occlumency?"

Hermione did not want to answer, could not bear to speak another word, but she knew she could not lie or pretend she didn't have the answer. "It allows a practiced witch or wizard to close his or her mind against a Legilimens, to prevent someone else from seeking his or her true thoughts and feelings."

"And, Miss Granger, what else?," Umbridge probed, the smile on her face widening.

"It is one of two known methods for countering the effects of, of . . . . Veritaserum," Hermione ended, all of her hope crumpling as she heard the dozens of gasps that followed her last word.

"Indeed, Ms. Granger, you are very bright. It does just that. Tell me, Hermione, how do we know that you yourself are not practicing Occlumency? That you really were without a wand or that your mouth really was taped shut? How can this court be sure that you did not seek out Jacob's attentions, that you did not long for his handsome body and enjoy it every time he . . ."

"BECAUSE I DIDN'T!," Hermione bellowed, nearly knocking over her chair as she stood, as an unknown strength of fury, that had nothing to do with the potion, rose up inside her. "And I don't care if you believe me, you . . . you TOAD! Jacob Mattleby raped me, almost every night for three months. You have pictures of the bruises from where his knees held my legs open, spell-memories of the scarring removed from when he forced himself inside of me. Tell me how I could have enjoyed that? Tell me how _anyone_ could have wanted, could have found pleasure in, that!"

"YOU," she continued, surprised in her anger to feel herself turning, pointing at Jacob and looking him in the eye. "You took away my parents, killed the two people I loved more than anything in this world. You did it so that you could enact your perversions upon me. Then, _then _you told me that I had to keep it a secret, that no one who ever found out would look at me the same again. And, you were right, they haven't. Instead, they have cared for me more, loved me more, for what I had survived! . . . You told me that it was my fault, that I had asked for it by the way I looked at you, by the way I disobeyed. But you were wrong about that. It was never my fault. You decided to rape me before I had ever even met you, and you would have continued to hurt me no matter what I did. I want you to know that I hate you, that every noble and good person in this room considers you worth less than the maggots that feed on dragon dung! And I want you to know that I will never, NEVER, let you touch me again."

The last bit of her energy gone, Hermione sunk back into her chair and broke into a new wave of sobs, fueled not only by the drain of her hurt but also by the strength of her anger.

She noticed that the courtroom had gone silent, and then listened as Dumbledore used the moment of shock to gather enough votes and call the Wizengamot to adjourn.


	25. So it is Spoken

Back in the cramped room where she had first been placed to wait, Hermione sat with her head resting on Ginny's shoulder, listening to the girl recount the events of the previous hour to her family and friends. Ginny left out many parts that she knew would unduly awaken images of Jacob's abuse in Hermione's mind, but she nonetheless managed to convey, to the awe of everyone gathered, the bravery and power of her friend's final stand.

Watching Molly's face redden beneath the stream of vulgarities Harry and Ron were unleashing upon Umbridge's name, Hermione let her mind wander among the countless worries trapped there. How many of the Wizengamot's members would have been swayed by the toad-woman's arguments? How many, never having found themselves frozen in bewildering terror, would question how one without magic had gotten the upper-hand over one of their own kind? How many would question her motives? Think her an expert Occulmens? Be caught up in Jacob's finely-tuned charms and smooth lies? Would it be enough to find him innocent? To release him and demand that she go along?

Shaking her memory free from the speeches of her court-tormenters, Hermione instead tried to focus on the last statements she, herself, had made. She had stood up to Jacob, and she had meant every word of it. He wouldn't touch her again, no matter what she had to do to make it so. _And_, she mused, looking once at the faces of Molly, Arthur, Tonks, Harry, Ron, and finally, at Ginny, _no matter where that fight led her, she would never again have to take it up alone. _

For once that day, at least, Hermione's eyes were dry.

An hour had passed, according to the chimes of the great clock in the entrance hall above them. Although all of the other expressions in the room wore an undershadowing of hoping for a swift verdict, Hermione knew that Umbridge of all people would do everything she could to prevent her from having that small grace.

She was surprised to see then, not three heartbeats later, the door to the chamber open and reveal a young page with wispy blonde hair. Looking directly at Hermione, the boy dipped into a bow and quietly announced, "They're ready for you, ma'am. The Wizengamot has reached a decision."

As he ducked back out, and Hermione apprehensively lifted her head from Ginny, she saw her other two friends shuffling their feet and offering her timid, awkward smiles of encouragement. "I want you there," she spoke firmly, turning first to the boys and then to Ginny's parents and Tonks, "I want all of you to be with me for whatever comes next."

Ten minutes later, Hermione settled herself into the highest back-bench of the dungeon courtroom, Ron and Ginny pressed close to her on both sides and the rest of her support-system flanking them and filling out the whole last row. Already the room had begun to go quiet, and she trained her eyes on her headmaster as he strode to front, raising his hands to dull the last few murmurs still resounding in the room.

"Jacob Henry Mattleby," he pronounced with the old edge of fury still lingering in his voice, "Stand and hear the decision reached by the Wizengamot on each of the charges laid upon you."

Hermione watched, could not help but watch, as Jacob did stand, without a hint of fear or hesitation. Coldly, he looked into the Chief Warlock's eyes, lifting his chin irritably as if he was considering challenging the frailer man to a bare-fisted duel.

"Mr. Mattleby," Dumbledore continued, unperturbed, "On the matter of arranging the deaths of Reginald and Matilda Granger, with premeditation and malevolence, this court finds you guilty."

Hermione let out a short, hard breath and felt Ginny's grip tighten on her arm as Dumbledore continued. "On the matter of inflicting harsh physical abuse upon their minor daughter, Hermione Granger, without cause or provocation, this court find you guilty. And, on the matter of forcing that same minor to unwillingly succumb to countless, degrading sexual acts with you, this court finds you _guilty_. What say you to these charges?"

His face still unmarked by a single line of worry, Jacob did not respond to Dumbledore, but addressed Hermione instead, his voice ruthless and bold. "Tell them, my pet, tell them that you made it all up. Tell them this instant that you were lying or I swear I shall . . ."

"YOU WILL NOT SPEAK TO HER!," Dumbledore roared, stepping in front of the prisoner and momentarily obstructing his view of the bench above.

"And _you, _old man, will not tell me what I can and cannot do!," Jacob heaved back, his face now contorted with anger. "This whole thing has been a mockery of justice, and I am a richer man than all of you conducting this charade. You wand-waving fools will be sorry, the moment I leave here and speak to my lawyers, the moment I go to the press with the details of this travesty. Your kind has no power over my kind, never has, and never will!"

"I think you will find, Mr. Mattleby," Dumbledore replied with a sad shake of his head, "That though some of us would not abuse our power by hurting others unnecessarily, that does not mean we have none." With that, he stepped aside and flicked his wand casually, strands of rope snaking out of it and binding Jacob's limbs in place and his mouth securely shut.

"Mr. Mattleby," Dumbledore continued, "you have been given your chance to address the charges against you, and you have taken it as leave to profess, _not remorse,_ but more threats of violence. It has long been known among our kind that only the most evil of man could harden their souls to the act of murder. Yet still, it takes one of an even baser and more vile cut to turn that hardness against a mere child, to take a teenager into his bed by force and find pleasure in the screams of her dying innocence."

Pausing for only a second to let his words settle on the ears of those gathered, Dumbledore went on, "As time and time again you have threatened the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, you have left us no choice but to pronounce upon you a punishment that will protect this sacred law. In a moment, you will be led away from this court and taken to the lower-most dungeons of Azkaban prison. There you will live out the rest of your days, no matter their number, without an opportunity to appeal my decision. Furthermore," Dumbledore continued, "You will be fed and clothed meagerly by dementors alone, creatures whose nature you may not _yet_ know, but who I assure you will show you only the same level of kindness that you once showed your own ward. And you will have no contact with any other living being--not by visit, nor call, nor post--until your breath has left you and your body is ready for the ground."

"So it is spoken, and so it shall be carried out," the Chief Warlock finished, striking the butt of his staff on the stone floor three times and then beckoning with his hand to the black-hooded figures in the corner who would take Jacob away.

It was with a glint of some warm new emotion that Hermione now witnessed the expression of fear overtaking her once-torturer's face. Tears of helplessness were now brimming in _his_ eyes as he struggled to free himself from the scaly arms ferreting him from the room.

Then Jacob was gone, and Hermione, still reveling in the new hope which that knowledge spread inside of her, was as still as the rest of the room, listening to Dumbledore clear his throat and begin again.

"Arthur and Molly Weasley, please stand and be addressed by the court."

The red-headed couple obliged, their smiles overtaking even their wonderment at the unexpected request.

"Normally, as you know, a separate hearing would be held on the matter, but in the interest of remedying time already wasted, our decisions have been merged. Before this court has come a petition, signed by both your hands, which requests that Hermione Granger be placed under your guardianship until she reaches legal age. Does this document still represent your decisions?"

Both Weasleys nodded, and it was with a flush of pride that Molly proclaimed, "More than anything in this world!"

"Then it shall be so," Dumbledore decreed. "Excepting her time at Hogwarts, Miss Granger shall reside with you until her seventeenth birthday or another, later, time of her choosing. And so," the old man added boldly, "that your family will not want more for her care, Jacob Mattleby's assets shall be determined and converted into whatever Galleons they may yield, to pass into your possession as soon as may be arranged."

With that the old man bowed to the couple, released the court, and took his leave, giving one last proud, fatherly wink to Hermione.

It was only seconds before she heard the whoops of joy emanating from Harry and Ron's mouths, before she found all light and sound leaving the room as first Ginny and then the rest of her new family wrapped her up in an impossibly jumbled and tangled group hug.

Despite the press of limbs now restraining her from all sides . . . _No, _she thought_, because of them_, _all of them_, _herself included_, Hermione felt finally, and fully, free.


	26. Always in the After

**Eight Weeks Later**

* * *

Hermione knelt in front of her parents' grave, running her fingers lightly over the marble script of their names. Beside them in the grass, she had placed a small, flat rock into which Ginny had helped her to carve Crookshanks' name. It soothed her to think that somewhere, in the unknown beyond, her family was still together. To know that she still loved them unendingly, and yet, that nothing in her any longer yearned to rush toward them and join them in their untimely fate.

She felt, perhaps as Harry did, that her mother and father must sometimes be watching over her, and she knew that if they were, they would be proud.

And they would be comforted to witness, in turn, how much in their absence she herself was still loved. After the trial, when Hermione had returned to school, it had not been easy to reestablish her daily pattern. Although her case had never been made public record, in accordance with the tenets of Gwendyll's law, many students still snickered over the odd rumor of where she had been, what she had gone through. Once or twice these rumors even bore grains of the truth, and Hermione was forced to wonder who might have relatives on the Wizengamot putting vague hints in their owls.

Ron, Harry, and Ginny especially, thus had earned, in a few mere weeks, more detentions apiece than Fred and George could have mustered up in a whole semester together. Each Saturday scrubbing cauldrons and repainting Filch's office ceiling by hand had been proudly won via the use of creative hexes to defend their friend's honor-her secret, her name. It was with a smile that Hermione remembered the day she herself had joined them, ten days after Jacob had been sent to Azkaban. It had been an unexpected conversation, the one that landed her there.

"You know Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall had confided to the brown-haired witch, pulling her aside after a particularly difficult hour of hushing whispers in Transfiguration, "I might not admit to saying so, but a well aimed slug-vomiting charm, perhaps cast in Mr. Smith's direction, might give the boy pause to consider what words are and are _not _proper to call a young lady. Besides, dear," Hermione's head of house had added with a wink, "I do hate to see you spending _all_ your Saturdays alone."

Like McGonagall, Dumbledore had become her great defender, though not so much just at school, from what she suspected. Only last week, she had opened her Daily Prophet, still anxiously scanning the headlines for the name she knew wouldn't appear, when another, almost as loathsome, name caught her eye:

_Dolores Umbridge, former undersecretary to Cornelius Fudge and a one time Head-mistress at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was brought before the Wizengamot on Thursday. Earlier this week, a member of that same court had intercepted several letters of Ms. Umbridge's, all which sought to convey, to unnamed, illicit sources, confidential information relevant to a case tried by the DYWWP earlier this month. Ms. Umbridge, who was given probation and barred permanently from her ministry duties, could not be reached to comment on the proceedings._

It was nice to know that so many powerful adults were watching over her, thought Hermione. Nicer to know that that number included Molly and Arthur. Though she missed her own parents as much as ever, she had begun to truly feel like a part of the Weasley clan. Hermione now regularly received owls inquiring about her grades, fussy remarks about her eating, hand-knit sweaters bearing her name-in short, all the things that Ginny, Ron, and their red-headed siblings had publicly declaimed but privately loved.

The Weasley parents had even offered to use part of Jacob's money to build an extra bedroom into the Burrow for their new daughter. But, after checking to make sure it was okay with her friend, Hermione had sent her reply-owl with a simple, thankful message of refusal-telling her new guardians that a nice bed in Ginny's room would be Galleons better spent.

And indeed it would be, for Hermione's bond with Ginny, forged through the power of intimate moments that they alone had shared, seemed only to grow stronger as the year drew toward a close. Though she loved Harry and Ron's company more than she ever had, it was even rarer these days to see her and Ginny apart.

Hermione still had nightmares from time to time, but even they had grown fewer and farther between, and it was never long before the other girl's arms would find her in the night and chase them away. She could not now remember, looking over the past week, the last time she had cried, but it gave her a certain solace to know that she could, anytime she needed to, in the arms of the friends and family that she really was a part of now, _no matter_, as Ginny's Christmas present once had claimed, _what storms may come_.

Lost, as always, in these mental wanderings, Hermione looked over and watched her friend as she buried Tiger Lily seeds at the foot of the Grangers' grave with her hands.

"Herm," Ginny murmured, noticing her gaze, "you okay?"

"Just thinking," Hermione sighed, giving her friend a halting half-smile.

"About?" Ginny replied, returning the expression and adding a hint of curiosity in the way she wrinkled her brow.

"Everything."

Ginny nodded knowingly, but Hermione felt compelled to say more, compelled to try out the truths that had been forming for weeks in her mind.

"You know, Ginny," she started, hesitantly, "after I lost them, after Jacob raped me the first time . . . I had never known that kind of raw pain in my body, but . . . even physically, it hurt so much more in _here_," she continued, pointing first to her head and then to her heart." After that night, I thought for so long that something had broken off and twisted up inside me, something sinister that would change who I was forever, that would make me unlovable and unable to love."

"And now?" Ginny asked quietly, leaning closer to her and brushing the dirt off of one of Hermione's knees.

"Well, now I know I was wrong, at least about the last part," Hermione answered, taking Ginny's hand, "But no matter what happens from here_, _I can't make my parents come back. I can't change what Jacob did to me, or permanently erase it from my memory. I was right about one thing. I can't ever be the girl that I once was."

"But you're stronger than that girl, loads stronger," Ginny countered, resting her head again on Hermione's shoulder.

"Yeah, I am . . . It's just that, Ginny, I'll _always _be _in the after. _But it's not the place I once thought it was, or at least it doesn't have to be. The after, well, it's my choice now. I can't be the girl my parents knew, the girl everyone knew for years, but I can chose what kind of girl I become and be loved by them all the same. I can't be who I was, but I _can love _who I am."

"And do you?" Ginny whispered, the murmur of her voice soft against Hermione's shirt.

"Without question," Hermione finished. And she knew that it was the truth.

* * *

End Note:

I felt compelled to add this, for I know that there are those out there who read fiction with the purpose of working through their own demons, of not feeling so alone. If you have been raped or sexually abused, know that there _is_ help out there. Call 1-800-656-HOPE, any time of the day or night and you will be connected immediately to someone who will listen and care. The number is free, confidential, and will not show up on your phone bill.

And, if you're still reading this and need to be told once again, Hermione's rape was not her fault. If you were raped, no matter what the circumstances, it was not your fault either.

May all who have suffered find their own Ginnys and know that somewhere inside of them resides the strength of Hermione's final stand.

With love,

_Penandpencil_

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Ps. Thank you all for the reviews. I try to respond to each one personally, but if for some reason I missed you, please yell at me via my inbox and I will respond promptly :-) For those wishing to review, I appreciate any/all feedback and am still open to making edits.


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